


The Fog Between Us

by creative_demon



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Drug Cartel, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Ian Gallagher, POV Mickey Milkovich, Post-Canon, Prison, Protective Ian Gallagher, Redemption, Regret, Sexual Tension, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 60
Words: 25,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creative_demon/pseuds/creative_demon
Summary: Season 7 ended with Ian and Mickey going their separate ways: one to start a new life in Mexico and the other to pick up the pieces of his life in Chicago. Several months have passed and both men are still trying to figure it out.  How do they move on from each other? Are their hearts still entwined?  Will they ever meet again?





	1. I don't know what's real anymore

Ian stood by the open window, the markings of a frown creasing his forehead.

A cloud of smoke billowed out from his cigarette into the cold Chicago air. He’d been standing there so long that the goose pimples on his skin were sprouting icicles. He liked the cold. It did more to soothe his spirits than his meds ever could. He took one last drag on his cigarette, relishing the layer of fog that lay thick inside his mind. The last thing he wanted right now was clarity. Not yet.

The male figure lying on the bed behind him was snoring peacefully. He portrayed such innocence when asleep that If one didn’t know any better, they would assume this was a guileless, happy-go-lucky type of character. Smiling at the thought, Ian bent down to pick up his clothes that were strewn all over the floor, the bed, the dresser… _how did my belt end up on the air conditioner?_ He stubbed out the cigarette and got dressed, quickly. Trevor would be back from that birthday party and at his house at 6am.

Warm, acrid guilt was bubbling up when the sleeping figure let out a murmur from deep within slumber. Pangs of a deeper longing churned his stomach anew...if only it were that simple.


	2. So Cold

“Why’re you so cold?” Trevor asked after planting a kiss on Ian’s icy cheek.

He’d expected to find a snug bundled up twink waking up to his touch, not a human block of ice. Peeling off his jacket and shoes, Trevor tucked himself into the covers and snuggled around Ian’s back. He inhaled the familiar blend of cigarettes, coffee and shampoo… and... beer and baby powder?

“Ian...are you okay?”

“Leave me alone,” Ian groaned, pulling his blanket closer.

Wrinkles of surprise appeared on Trevor's forehead as he propped up onto his elbows. When realisation finally dawned, his whole body slackened. He had been warned this might happen.

“Hey…did you take your meds yesterday?”

Silence.

Trevor sat up and ran a hand through his tousled, brown curls. He cast a weary look at the sleeping redhead and then at the door. He was too drunk for this. Better crash now and deal with this later along with the inevitable hangover. He swaddled Ian with an additional blanket from the linen closet and planted another kiss on his cheek before tiptoeing out to the living room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the redhead turned around and stared wordlessly at the door.


	3. Hair of the Dog

Mickey woke up to sweaty sheets and a splitting headache.

With enormous effort, he groaned his way out of the covers and sat up with his head buried into his hands. He reached for a cigarette and flicked the empty box onto the floor. What a night. He vaguely remembered a cocktail of pills, booze and heavy metal strumming in the background. Probably some shots. Definitely lots of sex. The bittersweet soreness in his lower backside could attest to that. Grabbing a beer, he washed down three aspirin with hair of the dog. Disgusting stuff. The setting sun cast an orange glow behind the curtains. _Did I sleep all day?_  

After one wistful glance at the empty side of the bed, Mickey got up and stumbled over into the kitchen. Fucking A! He found some leftover eggs and sausage in the fridge. The only thing worse than his head being split open by this hangover was the gnawing hole in his gut. His plate was cleaned out in all but two seconds.

One shower and two rubs later, he was out of the house. Down to business.

 


	4. What's for Dinner?

As soon as Ian opened the front door, Liam flung his book bag across the floor and plonked down on the living room couch to watch TV.

“Anyone home?” Ian called out to no one in particular. There was no response from the Gallagher household. He rubbed Liam’s head fondly. “Looks like it’s just you and me, bud. Hungry?” Liam nodded vigorously, his eyes glued to the yellow sponge and pink starfish dancing across the screen.

Ian migrated to the kitchen where he set the bag of groceries on the counter and put on his imaginary chef hat. Time for his world famous spaghetti and meatballs. Well, Liam-famous, at least. Smiling, he turned on the oven and boiled a pot of water. After throwing in the spaghetti, he reached for his phone and turned up the volume on the latest playlist Trevor sent him. _This is nice_. Just cooking dinner and listening to music. No boys. No drama.

Once the turkey meatballs were finally in the oven and the pasta sauce was heating up, he leaned back on the counter and scrolled through his messages. One thousand and one texts from Fiona were screaming for his attention and he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. He didn’t need to read them. He knew she was worried sick. Faking a depression episode with Trevor two nights ago was definitely NOT his finest moment. Just thinking about it made him want to kick his own ass.

He switched on the voice-to-text function on his phone. “Hi Fiona. Don’t worry, I’m fine. My meds are in balance. It’s…complicated. I’m at home with Liam, we’re about to have dinner. Call me when you get this.” He clicked send and set his phone back on the counter. Trevor must be worried too… He reached for his phone again when a familiar male voice murmured from behind.

“What’s for dinner?”

Ian stood rooted to the ground.


	5. LOOK AT ME

Trevor stomped into his bedroom and slammed the door so hard that the ceiling reverberated. He tossed his keys onto the bedside table before plummeting face down on the bed. Turbulent emotions were tearing through his body and he sought asylum from an aptly corrosive playlist of rage anthems. It was no use. Memories of the evening kept playing like a sick song on repeat…

* * * * * * * * * * *

Trevor looped his arms around Ian’s stomach from behind and repeated, “I said, what’s cooking, good-looking?”

Ian cleared his throat and let out an unusually high-pitched chuckle. “H-hey! I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Good surprise?”

Ian nodded as he broke out of the embrace and pecked Trevor's lips. He began ladling spaghetti onto Liam’s plate with the concentration of a heart surgeon. The subtlety of the evasion was not lost on Trevor, a man whose job entailed analysing the psycho-social behaviours of his teens. He soldiered on.

Shrugging, he said, “Yeah, my shifted ended early and I missed your cute face so…here I am.” 

He grinned at the redhead, who was transferring meatballs from a baking dish to Liam’s plate with Da Vinci-like devotion. Trevor was sure the aesthetics would be lost on the seven-year-old.

“Liam! Dinner!” Ian called, as he dolloped hot pasta sauce onto the plate.

Liam came scurrying into the kitchen, barely containing his excitement. He was always glad when Ian took care of him. His older brother had a quiet strength and affection that made Liam feel like he was being wrapped up in a great, big, giant blanket. _And he makes the best spaghetti and meatballs!_ He dug in the moment the plate was set in front of him. 

“YOU HAVEN’T LOOKED AT ME ONCE!” Trevor slammed both fists on the kitchen table, sending Liam's spoon clattering to the floor. His usually cheerful face was flushed beet-red, fists clenching by his sides. It was in the next moment when he realised that he had crossed a terrible, terrible line. Little Liam had leaped to Ian's side and wrapped tiny, protective arms around his brother's legs.

"Look, I'm sorry..." Trevor began.

Ian painted a sweet smile on his face as he bent down to kiss the top of Liam's head. “It’s okay, bud,” he cooed, gently untangling Liam's arms. “Eat your dinner, alright? I’ll be right back.”

Liam gazed up at Trevor and saw that his expression had softened considerably. Reassured, he let go of Ian's legs and went to get another spoon from the kitchen drawer. When Ian finally locked eyes with Trevor, the sweet smile was wiped clean off his face and a wall of fire was crackling behind the green. In one swift motion, Trevor was hauled out of the kitchen, through the living room and front door and out onto the street. Idle passers-by stopped to watch the commotion.

“Get the fuck off me!” Trevor shouted, as his arm was finally released from the death grip.

Without another word, Ian marched back into the house and closed the door gently, almost gingerly, behind him.

 


	6. Cow Piss

Mickey slumped down on the bar stool, exhausted from a long night’s activities. It was good, though. He’d made enough cash to last at least a month, with enough left over to grease the hands of his ‘caretakers’. The cartel business was no joke. Move product or get shipped out in a body bag. Don’t pass go, don’t fucking collect 200 dollars. That suited Mickey just fine. He was right in his element. 

His thoughts wandered to a certain snooty redhead who would not approve of his life choices. “Fuck him,” he said out loud, flushing the nostalgia away with a swig of the strange-tasting beer. He'd never drank cow piss before but this beer must be what it tastes like.  

“Fuck who? Me?” a male voice from behind him countered.

Mickey didn’t need to turn around to know the guy was smiling all the way down to his ankles. _Probably got his dick in his hand and staring a hole through my back. Whatever, man._

“The fuck you doing here, Carlos,” he asked without really wanting an answer. He took another swig of the foul beer.

“Boss wants to see ya. It’s about Arturo.”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Mickey cocked his eyebrow half an inch before finally turning to face Carlos. “Do I look like a fucking priest to you?”

“Depends.” Carlos struck a cowboy pose, his hand gripping his belt. “Want me to be your altar boy-” 

Mickey stuck his middle finger up in Carlos’ face as he took a final swig of his beer and made his way out of the bar. “The usual place?”

Carlos nodded, his grin growing toothier by the second. “You’re gonna be so glad Arturo died.”


	7. Balance

One week had passed since his fight with Trevor. Thankfully, the long hours at the station kept Ian from dwelling on it. Days blended into nights and this hour was not much different from the last. He recalled his carefree, un-medicated days when he would feel every emotion so intensely. Now his life felt like a cheap imitation filled with regulated highs and lows. He was in ‘balance’. _Fuck, I hate that word_. 

“You even listening, man?” Lip’s voice broke through the foggy trail, forcing him back to the present moment. They were walking the short distance back to the station after their lunch.

Shaking his head, he replied, “Yeah, man. Just a lil’ tired.”

“You’ve gotta stop working so much. You’ll get sick.”

“Gotta pay the bills, right?” Ian countered. When he saw that Lip’s brow was furrowed, his eyes a concerned shade of blue, Ian steadied an arm on his big brother’s shoulder. “I’m alright. Just need to take a couple of days off that’s all. I’ll talk to my supervisor about it.”

“You better.” Lip said, the worry in his voice finally evaporating.

They arrived at the station just in time for his afternoon shift. Lip punched Ian playfully on the shoulder and turned to go back. “I’ll catch you later, yeah? And take it easy, fuck wad.”

 Ian waved to the retreating Lip and sauntered towards the ambulance to commence rig check. It was a slow afternoon, only a couple other people were milling about. His thoughts trailed back to Trevor. This time, there was no panic in his gut, no guilt. Just disappointment. He definitely could’ve handled that evening a lot differently.

 He pulled out his phone, scrolled down to the number he’d been avoiding since their last rendezvous and typed: “I’m coming over tonight. We need to talk.”

 With that, he flipped his phone shut, tucked it into his back pocket and climbed up on to the rig.


	8. Get In, Get Out.

Trevor adjusted his backpack and checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was about 6.30pm. The last time he was here he was getting thrown out. Now, here he was again, standing outside the front door of the Gallagher house like an idiot. Get in. Apologize. Get out. Get in. Make Up. Get Out. Get in. Break Up. Get Out.

 _Get in. Get out_. He knocked on the door. 

“It’s open!” a female voice yelled from inside. Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, Trevor pushed the door open and ventured in. 

The house was warm and smelled like a bakery. The TV was airing cartoons and empty wrappers and cups littered the living room couch. Fiona emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray of freshly baked cookies in her oven mitts.

“Oh, hi Trevor!” she beamed. “Come in, come in!”  

 Trevor returned the smile. He liked Ian’s older sister. “Hey, Fiona. Er... is Ian here?”

 “Not yet but he should be back soon though. Wanna stick around? Me and Liam are about to have cookies and hot chocolate. Aren’t we, peanut?” She yelled the last bit to Liam who responded with an enthusiastic, “Yup!”

 Trevor peered uncertainly over Fiona’s shoulder and asked, “Is that supposed to be dinner?”

 Fiona cocked her head in mock offence. There was laughter in her eyes. “Of course not! We had McDonald’s before you got here.”

 Liam dashed into the living room, with one eye on the cooling cookies, and tugged Fiona’s shirt. Trevor bent down on one knee and smiled at him. “Hey, Liam. I got something for you. Wanna see?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out two plush replicas of a yellow sponge and a pink starfish. In an instant, Liam leaped to Trevor’s side and was gathering up the toys and holding them up to the ceiling lights. His joyful reaction swelled their hearts, and they both reached down to rub his hair and pat his back.

"What do we say to Trevor?” came Fiona’s laughing voice.

“Thank you!” Liam chirped, barely taking his eyes of his new bounty.

 “Now you definitely have to stay.” Fiona insisted. “ Cookies?”


	9. A Broken Man

“How long is this shit going to take?” Mickey asked, as the needle threaded red streaks across his chest. High pain tolerance or not, this shit was turning him teary-eyed. Pain, blood, guts or vomit, that he could handle. You pick yourself up and move the fuck on. 

But sometimes that pain just won't go away. And when that happens...it can break a man.

He remembered the time he carved the tattoo into his chest with a switchblade lifted off a prison guard. The tightness in his chest, the searing pain and coursing blood were only a fraction of what he felt on the inside.

Fucking Ian Gallagher.

When those feelings haunted him then, he chose to bring them out to the outside, where he could see it everyday in the reflection of the prison sink mirrors. Some shit you just can’t run away from, you know.

The tattoo artist had finally stopped drilling and was moping up his blood with a dirty washcloth. As he lay there on that gurney in that puke-smelling tattoo shop, his phone vibrated with a new text message. Lifting the screen up to his face, Mickey read the message and picked up his cigarette. He blew out a long, weary cloud of smoke.

 _Time to move the fuck on_. 

 


	10. A Long Night [Part One]

 His name was Ricardo. His buddies called him Slick Rick. Ian just called him Ricky. It was from Ricky’s bed that Ian was now trying to extract himself after yet another failed attempt at breaking things off.

 He couldn’t continue like this, at least not until he’d squared things off with Trevor. He’d been cheated on before, many times, and didn’t want to be that same sort of dickhead. He started to think about Caleb’s cheating, but somehow, it was Angie Zargo’s face that showed up. He violently shook away the image. _Why am I thinking about Angie Fucking Zargo?_

 He had a solid plan when he arrived at Ricky’s apartment that evening. He entered Rick’s apartment with his extra key and found Ricky at the dining table, counting big wads of cash. Ian watched him for a while, appreciating all the little bits and features. Ricky was by no means a big guy, but he had strong, lean muscles. He also had dirt-brown eyes, curly black hair and a sly kind of smile that always made you think he was up to something. _Which was probably true_. Ricky was into some shady shit. Ian didn’t know exactly what but knowing this neighbourhood, it was probably drugs, whores, robberies or all of the above.

 As usual, his plan had gone directly down the shit hole the moment Ricky noticed him standing by the door. Wordlessly, he had gotten up from the table, tossed the cash aside and jumped on Ian like an animal in heat. What they had was hot, rough and simple. No strings, no mess. Ricky was still in the closet, and he liked to keep it that way. Ian had no problem whatsoever with that arrangement.

 They met in the club one night when Ian was drunker than he’d ever been, soon after he’d returned from the Mexican border. Trevor was still not talking to him after the whole Mickey escapade. He just needed to not think, to not feel anything. A plethora of emotions were threatening to tear him apart like a fucking tornado and his meds weren’t helping one bit.

 It was then that Ricky had spotted the redhead, taking shot after beer after shot after beer after another shot. He went over to him and said, “Yo, tough guy. You tryin’ to drown yourself or something? If you wanna get off, there are easier ways to do it.”

 Ian had examined him in a drunken haze, the words ‘tough guy’ stuck to his mind like a warm caress.

 “You wanna get out of here?” Ricky had then suggested, his eyes a lusty shade of brown.

The rest was history. Drunken trysts and guilty mornings. It was also around that time that the fog had settled in, cushioning him against all unwanted thoughts and emotions. If Ian were being honest with himself he would know the reason why Ricky was so irresistible to him.

He banished that disobedient line of thought into the fog where it belonged and got dressed.


	11. A Long Night [Part Two]

Ian crept back into the house at about midnight.

The warm smell of chocolate drew him from the shadowy living room into the kitchen, where he found a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen table with a note on top. He chuckled as he picked up the note. The large gawky letters that were obviously scribbled by Liam, read:

 

TO IAN, FROM LIAM AND TREVOR.

 

_…Trevor?_

 

Just then, indistinct sounds of snoring came from the living room. Slowly, Ian turned and retraced his steps, not quite ready for what he would find.

Trevor lay on the couch, one hand behind his head for support and the other on top of Liam’s back, who was sprawled face down on Trevor’s chest. Liam’s hand was gripping a yellow toy Ian had never seen before. A dark blue blanket covered them, partially, camouflaging them in the darkness. He stared at the Liam’s sleepy mug for a minute, before shifting his gaze in Trevor’s direction. 

There it was again. Warm, acrid, _what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do_ guilt.

He returned his attention back to the sleeping Liam, peeling off the blanket and patted the little boy’s back. As Ian lifted him up into his arms, Liam draped his arms around him and promptly fell back to sleep, his head resting on Ian’s shoulders.

“Let’s get you to bed, bud.” Ian whispered, rubbing Liam’s back as he carried him up the wooden hill. After tucking Liam into bed, Ian came back downstairs to find Trevor still soundly asleep. He lingered for a while at the stairwell then eventually flipped on the living room light.

Trevor’s heavy-lidded eyes fluttered and squinted against the brightness. He brushed his hand on what should have been Liam’s back but instead felt his own stomach. He shot up and darted his eyes about in panic.

“Don’t worry,” came Ian’s voice, as he approached from the stairwell. He slumped down on the couch next to Trevor. “He’s in bed.”

Relief washed over Trevor’s whole body and he let his eyes grow heavy again. He groaned and rubbed his hair. “What time is it?”

“Past midnight.” Ian replied, frown lines on his forehead. “Where’s Fiona? She was supposed to be watching Liam tonight.”

“She got a phone call and ducked out. Asked me to watch him for a while…she’s not back yet?”

Ian shook his head. He was used to Fiona’s shenanigans. He looked at the ceiling, the floor, the TV…anything to delay the inevitable. When he ran out things to inspect, he braced himself for collision. Carefully, he began, “Trevor…look, I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t,” Trevor cut in. Sighing heavily, he laid a hand on Ian’s shoulder and fixed him with that all-knowing gaze Ian had grown accustomed to. There was no anger or accusation in his eyes, only remorse. “I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean for things to go down like they did.”

Ian sighed and sank deeper into the couch. “Yeah, me too,” he agreed. He watched Trevor fidget and fumble with his thoughts. He could almost read them on a page.

“And, er… I think maybe you need some space…you know, to process-”

Ian seized Trevor’s face in both palms and pulled him in. At first reluctant, Trevor met him, groaning into the kiss. He dug his fingers into Ian’s shoulders. Ian laced his fingers into Trevor’s hair. Just when Trevor had surrendered, Ian broke away but still held on to Trevor’s face. His eyes burned with determination. Trevor blinked through the aborted passion and waited.

“Let’s live together.”


	12. A letter from the future...

Trevor,

I don’t know how to say this. 

Mickey's all wrong for me. He’s a stupid, violent, insensitive shit head who doesn’t think twice about anything. It's funny, but..I can’t even remember a time before I knew him. Trust me, I’ve tried...He's a part of me. A part of my family...and I can't be without him.

I gotta go. 

Take care of yourself, 

Ian


	13. The Boorish American

The sun was baring down fiercely on Ciudad Juarez that day. _What I wouldn’t give for a cold one at the Alibi right about now._

Mickey was stretched out on his bed, sweat dripping down onto the already clammy sheets. The whirling fan above him did nothing to relieve the prickling heat. A pack of cigarettes were left unopened at the bedside table.

The door creaked open and Mickey squinted at the intruder. He hissed out a breath from his lungs. “Fucking finally1 You go all the way to El Paso for those?” Mickey said, referring to the icebox teeming with cold Coronas brought by the visitor. “Toss it here”

The man smiled brightly, unperturbed, and fished out a bottle from the bottom of the box where it was coldest. He’d grown fond of the quick-tempered American and his boorish ways. 

“Did you miss me?” asked Benjamin, handing over the beer.

Mickey sat up and decked the cap off on the edge of the bedside table. After a long, refreshing swig, he examined Benjamin with a tinge of lust in his eyes. “Why not.” he replied, more of a statement than a question.

Benjamin’s grin grew wider, exposing the white of his teeth. He was tall, at least 6 foot, with toasted almond skin, fluffy brown hair and an athletic physique. Best part about him was his eyes. So naïve and gullible, always ready to soak up whatever Mickey dished out. He was sweet. Mickey liked them sweet.

He was also the only one Mickey let top him since arriving in Mexico five months ago.

They met at an auto-mechanic shop a couple months before. The AC in Mickey’s green Camaro was busted up so he had brought it in to get the heater core replaced. When he got there, the shop looked deserted. Mickey had parked the car and got out to investigate.

“Anyone workin in this shit hole?” he yelled out, looking about. He tugged at his collar to usher in some fresh air. It was so fucking hot.

A few seconds passed and there was no response. He yelled louder. “Yo! I said, ola, motherfuckers! No one working here?”

Finally, a guy dressed in blue overalls rolled out from underneath a blue sedan at the far side. He pulled up his protective eyewear and plucked out his earphones.

“Ola,” he addressed Mickey, flashing that smile that won over the boorish American. He was covered in oil and sweat.

And the rest was fucking history.


	14. House Hunting

“I don’t like this one,” Trevor declared.

He and Ian were house hunting again, something that become their daily past time after work for the past four weeks. Today, they were touring a convertible studio on the West Side. 

“What’s not to like?” Ian countered, peaking out the window on the far end. He ignored the phone that was vibrating in his back pocket. “It’s spacious.”

Trevor scrunched his nose and shrugged. “It’s just one gigantic room. Where’s the privacy?” 

Ian turned to him with a mischievous smile. “Who needs privacy?” He closed the gap between them. “Caleb’s studio apartment was just like this one and we got on fine. Plus it’s cheaper this way.”

Trevor raised a brow. “Caleb?”

“My ex,” responded Ian, shifting uncomfortably.

“Oh. Was that before or after Mickey?” asked Trevor, a cold edge to his voice.

“Does it matter?”

“Apparently it does, if your exs’ apartments are going to form the basis of our future apartment. Do you want them to pick out our furniture, too?”

Ian said nothing. He understood now about the nature of Trevor’s hair triggers. Most of them had to do with being transsexual, but this one was Ian’s fault. Ever since their post-Mexico reconciliation, Trevor was extremely sensitive about the subject of Mickey. Ian usually did a good job avoiding it. He’d been careless today.

A few tense moments of silence roamed between them, but Ian never took his eyes off Trevor. These temper flares usually went as quick as they came, and today was no different. After Trevor was visibly calmer, Ian squeezed his arm, affectionately.

“Wanna grab dinner?” Ian offered. “We can continue this house hunting stuff tomorrow.”

Trevor nodded, sheepishly. As they left the 54th apartment on their list, Ian’s phone vibrated again in his pocket. As had been the case for the past four weeks, its cries were left unheeded.


	15. El Venganza

Luis ‘El Venganza’ Valenciano paced the marble floors of his luxurious villa, with slow, deliberate steps. He was not a man to rush anything, especially something of great importance. He pulled out a Cuban Cigar from its special box by the mantle, and before he lifted it up to his lips, a low-ranking associate was by his side with a poised lighter. With the flick of a hand, the associate was dismissed and out of the room. Valenciano settled back into his black baroque throne chair, enjoying slow, deliberate drafts on his cigar.

He scrutinized the only other person in the room, who was standing erect with both hands behind his back. His icy blue eyes were fixed on the flames that were greedily engulfing the wood in the fireplace. They cast dancing shadows upon the walls of the majestic room. 

“Tell me.” Valenciano began. “Do you know what the Venganza family stands for?”

“Honour. Loyalty. And above all respect,” came the man’s swift reply.

“Yes, yes. Good. But do you know why?”

“Because we don’t take shit from anyone, especially not each other.”

Valenciano nodded, approvingly. _He has guts, this one. I made the right choice._ Most low-ranking associates would be waxing poetic about some ideology or making up something they saw from the Godfather.

He continued. “Arturo was my best Lieutenant, but he got greedy.” His tone darkened. “You won’t get greedy, now will you, Mikhailo?”

Without a flinch, Mickey shook his head.

Satisfied, Valenciano leaned back in his chair and waved Mickey away with a flick of the hand. As Mickey was at the door he heard Valenciano mutter, almost to himself:

“Never forget who your family is…”

Once outside with the door shut behind him, Mickey looked down at his palms. They were dripping in cold sweat.


	16. Sunset

The sun dipped low into the Chicago skyline, painting the sky a yellowish orange. Chicago always looked best during sunrise and sunset, even on the Southside. It was all the in-between shit that was a fucking mess.

“Hey, Gallagher! When you’re done admiring the sunset, do you mind helping me with rig check over here?”

Ian looked at his EMT partner with fondness. He’d come to respect the no-nonsense woman with the heart of gold. “It’s so fucking beautiful though,” he protested, as he climbed back onto the rig and took the checklist from her.

Sue shook her head and gave him her trademark smirk. “I’m gonna head to the back and refill these,” she announced, an oxygen tank in each hand. In one smooth motion, she jumped down the rig and crossed the fifty meters to the other side of the station. She stopped short at the door and beamed back at Ian. “Gallagher! The recommendation went through- you’re now officially a training supervisor!”

A small smile spread across Ian’s face as he studied the woman, incredulous. He nodded and yelled back, “Thanks!”

She winked and disappeared into the back.

“Training supervisor, huh?” said a gruff male voice close by.

Ian’s breath caught in his throat, the delight instantly soured. He checked in Sue’s direction before climbing back down and around the rig.

A grimacing, brooding Ricky was leaning against the side of the rig in the exact same spot he was in, with hands casually pocketed, his eyes on the now sunless sky.  

“What are you doing here, Ricky?” Ian asked in an exasperated tone. _This is the last thing I need_.

“What you expect me to do when you ain’t taking none of my calls,” Ricky retorted. He pivoted his head to face Ian, lazily appraising the redhead. “Where you been?”

“Busy. Working.” Ian countered. He cocked his head, curious, “How’d you find me?”

Ricky shrugged, surveying the surroundings. “I have my ways, Mr. EMT,” He chuckled. “Now I know why you were able to fix my arm that time.”

Ian nodded at the memory. He’d been having Chinese food at Ricky’s apartment when Ricky burst in with a gashing bullet wound. Ian used the chopsticks to extract the bullet, disinfected the area with vodka and wrapped the arm with torn pieces from the bed sheet.

Clanging sounds came from the far end. Ian hissed urgently at Ricky, “You have to go.”

“When will you come see me?”

“I’ll call you,” Ian lied.

“Don’t play with me, Red.” Ricky drawled, his voice like cut glass. He stood up, lazily poked Ian in the chest with his forefinger, and sauntered out of the station.

Ian swiped a hand down his face as if wiping himself clean from the encounter. _What in the actual fuck have I gotten myself into..._


	17. Sandals & Tequila

“El Azul!”

“To El Azul!”

“Don Azul!”

Another round of shots travelled around the table, were flushed clean and quickly refilled for yet another round. Mickey waved away the glass, already past his sobriety. He was seating at the head of the table with one other Lieutenant, a couple of falcons, some hit men and a bunch of high-ranking associates. The lowest ranking associates were milling about the villa, clearing plates and refilling drinks, drugs and dinner wherever required.

The villa. _His_ villa. 2500 square feet. Two floors. Four bedrooms. Four bathrooms. Swimming pool. A hot tub. _A fucking garden for Christ sake._ Perks of being a lieutenant in the Venganza family.

“Azul!” they chorused again, as more whisky was passed around the table. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d be lying in a pool of his own vomit.

As if on cue, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Mickey exhaled his relief and slipped away from the escalating debauchery. A few minutes and lots of rooms later, he was finally at the back door.

“Finally,” said Benjamin, as he came in out of the night air.

“What can I say, it's a big fucking house.” Mickey said, closing the door behind him. He led the way through the kitchens, up the spiralling staircase, past the upstairs deck room and into his bedroom.

Benjamin raised his eyebrows and closed the door, “The party downstairs, it’s for you?” he asked. “This house, everything, it’s all for you??”

Mickey nodded as he sat down, opened a pack of smokes and lit up. He furrowed his brows as he puffed, flicked ash onto the hardwood flooring and asked, “The fuck does ‘Azul’ mean?

“Azul?” Benjamin repeated, plopping down onto the humongous bed and propping his arms behind his head. “It's the colour blue. Why?”

Mickey marinated in that information, drawing in smoke and scratching his brow. His blue eyes settled on the reflection in the large mirror across the room. This was a fucking big house and a lot of fucking responsibility. _All I wanted was sandals and tequila..._. He was out of cigarette and weary of contemplation. He stood up, peeled off his shirt and began unbuckling his belt.

“Drop your pants.” Mickey ordered.


	18. Family

“SURPRIIIIIIIISE!”

Half a dozen voices rang out the moment Ian turned the key. There in the living room were Fiona, Lip, Debbie, Frannie and Liam’s smiling faces, greeting him as he entered the new two-bedroom apartment.

Before he could react, his family were upon him, folding him into a warm bear hug from his knees to the top of his head. Baby Frannie gurgled and tugged at his hair.

“Welcome to your house-warming party,” Debbie said, handing Frannie over to Ian who kissed her cheek and held her close.

“Thanks, Debs.” His heart swelled at the Gallagher clan, “You guys didn’t have to do this,”

“Of course not. It was either this or kidnapping you on your way to work” Lip said, sitting down on the hardwood floor and leaning against the wall. There was no furniture in the apartment, yet.

Fiona punched Ian lightly on the arm, “Yeah, it’s been very hard to get a hold of you lately.” She bent over and lifted Liam up into her arms. “I mean, apart from watching this little guy, you’ve practically gone AWOL-”

“-no pun intended,” Lip interjected with a wink.

“-where have you been?” Fiona finished, throwing Lip an exasperated look.

Ian smiled at Liam and smothered Frannie with Eskimo kisses. He looked at the anxious faces of his family and dropped his shoulders. “ I just…haven't been myself lately. Maybe it’s all the extra hours at work.”

“Trevor did mention you got a promotion at work a couple of weeks ago,” Debbie said, settling down into a cross-legged position on the floor. She pulled out a baby blanket from her bag, spread it on the floor in front of her and motioned for Ian to hand over Frannie.

“That’s right, why didn’t you say anything?” Fiona pestered, “We could have thrown you a party, baked a cake, something!”

“It's no big deal.” Ian said, handing over the baby then leaning against the wall next to Lip. Lip held up his fist for a congratulatory bump, which Ian met.

“It _is_  a big deal!” She poked him hard in the chest and spread her arms open, “I’m proud of you, come here.”

“Thanks, Fiona” Ian said, hugging her back.

“Pizzas on me!” Fiona announced. She pulled out her phone and hit the speed dial. “You like pepperoni, right?” Ian nodded and she walked away to make the call.

The front door swung open and a familiar, husky voice declared, “Alright, alright, enough of the mushy family stuff!”

Kev and Vee bust in with bottles of vodka, paper cups and a sound system in tow. Kevin put the system on the floor and began fumbling with the electric cables.

Vee gave Ian a hug. “Don’t go disappearing on us, again, you hear me? Once is bad enough.” Fiona had returned from her pizza call just in time to smack Vee on the shoulder.

“What??” Vee exclaimed, feigning surprise. She began arranging the paper cups on the counter and pouring generous amounts of vodka into them. “Are we not allowed to talk about the time he hotwired a helicopter, went AWOL, had all them MPs after him and nearly got sent to big boy jail??”

“VEE!” Fiona and Kev chastised, smiling. Vee made a zip and lock motion on her lips and threw away the imaginary key. She handed Liam a juice box and pinched his cheek, then distributed the vodka cups before settling down near Kev. Ian sank down on the floor next to Lip and soaked in the Gallagher atmosphere. He hadn’t been this relaxed in weeks.  

“Yo, need some help, Kev?” Lip called out, not particularly looking like he actually wanted to get up and help.

“Got it!” Kev proclaimed, as the contraption finally came on. As the first song began to play, Ian looked up from his seat. He took in a deep breath and proceeded to down the entire cup full of vodka in one swig.

“That’s the spirit!” Vee said, getting up to refill his cup. She left the bottle next to him and winked, “Congrats, Ian.”

Ian flushed down a second and third cup in an effort to blur the quickening pulse in his veins and tightening of airwaves in his chest.

“I love this song,” Debbie said, swaying her head to the rhythm.

“Yeah…me too,” Ian agreed, smiling weakly. His voice sounded like a distant echo from a cloud far, far away.

 

The song chorused on, unabashed:

‘ _…heartache to heartache we stand,_

_No promises, no demands, love is a battlefield,_

_We are strong, no one can tell us we're wrong,_

_Searching our hearts for so long, both of us knowing,_

_Love is a battlefield…_ ”


	19. Reborn

A few hours later, when everyone was dancing, swimming in vodka and shamelessly butchering karaoke songs, Ian snuck outside to get some fresh air. He has just settled down on the front steps when an unexpected visitor strolled into view.

“So you weren’t going to invite your dear, old father to the party, were you?” Frank Gallagher complained, a good-natured grin on his face. He sat down next to Ian, plucked the cup from his hand before Ian could protest, and guzzled it down.

Ian smiled in spite of himself. “What are you doing here, Frank.”

Frank tossed the empty cup onto the street, “Came to join the festivities, of course.” He frowned at Ian. “Question is, what are _you_ doing sitting out here? It’s your party, isn’t it.”

Ian rubbed the hair on the back of his head and gazed into the darkness, searching for an answer. When none came, he sighed and said, “To tell you the truth, Frank, I’m not quite sure.”

“Oh, yes you are” said Frank, simply.

When Ian turned to him with a questioning look, Frank turned and faced his son squarely. “You know. I know. Even they know,” he said, motioning towards the apartment. “Everybody in this goddamn neighbourhood knows but they’re all too lily livered to tell ya. Not me. I’d never lie to you, son.” Ian intuitively raised his eyebrow at that, breaking the flow of Frank’s tirade. “Well, you know what I mean.” Frank admitted.

“Know what?” Ian asked, his saliva caught in his throat. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

Frank sighed and grasped Ian’s shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze. “You don’t need me to spell it out for you...do you, son?”

Ian felt every heartbeat _thump thump thump_ , pushing out against his chest, shattering the long enshrouded façade. His skin was cracking, the fallen pieces disintegrating into dust.

Frank held Ian’s eyes for the longest moment, observing. When he finally let go, Ian could hardly breathe. He was a newborn gasping for air in lungs he had never used. He inhabited his body for the first time since….

 

Since….

 

Mexico.

 

“Go get him, son.”


	20. Fucking Unrealistic

“Hello, Jack” Rose says. Jack turns, surprised to see her. She continues, “I changed my mind…”

“The _fuck_ are you watching?!” Mickey interrupted, plopping down on the couch next to Benjamin and handing him a can of beer. Mickey found himself hanging out more and more at Benjamin’s apartment. It felt… _normal_.

“Shhhh!” Benjamin hissed, taking the beer, eyes glued to the TV screen. “This is the best part.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and chugged the remainder of his beer. He burped loudly, crushed the can in his hand and hooped it perfectly into the waste paper basket. “Two points!”

He was glad when his phone rang. It gave him a few more seconds of respite from the insufferable romance. “What? Yeah. Just make sure he gets that consignment on time. Yeah. 30 pounds should do it. Get one of the associates to deliver it to him personally, you hear me? Good.”

Mickey flipped off his phone and cast a withering look at Benjamin, then at the TV screen. One eyebrow cocked up to the ceiling in contempt.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Benjamin said, shaking his head, as the on-screen lovers share their first kiss at the bow of the ship and Titanic sees it’s first dawn.

“That shit is fucking unrealistic,” Mickey countered. There was a slight pause, where his eyes lowered a fraction and his voice faded, raw and guttural. “Nobody gives a fuck about love anymore.”

Benjamin tore his eyes from the screen and turned them towards Mickey, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and suddenly needed to get another beer. Benjamin’s eyes followed him into the kitchen. He remembered the inscription of the tattoo that was on Mickey’s chest before the alteration.

“Ian Galagher…” Benjamin murmured into the empty room, as Jack’s green eyes were intent on Rose, pencil and paper in hand, drawing her likeness into infinity.


	21. I Changed My Mind [Part One]

It was almost dawn.

Ian’s mind was hurtling down a familiar, dusty freeway, illuminating its path, blowing cobwebs off hidden pictures in hidden drawers. Tattooed knuckles belonging to warm, soft hands. An intoxicating smell of milk, candy bars and baby powder underneath cigarettes, weed and cheap beer. The intensity of those aquatic eyes.

Tears pearled down Ian’s face as he walked, blurring his vision. His heart was too big for his chest, and he found himself gulping air every few minutes. Clarity was a bitter pill to swallow, much like his first batch of bipolar medication. He could run away all he wanted, but sooner or later, he’d have to take it.

Who knew Frank would be the one to administer it.

Ian looked up to find he was at the door of Trevor’s old apartment. With a calm breath, Ian unlocked the door with his spare key. It was quiet, as he expected. Trevor had texted that he was working late and couldn’t make it to the party. This was supposed to be their last night before officially moving into their new apartment. _What the fuck have I been doing…?_

It took him a minute to gather his things into a duffel bag. He was at the door when a sudden twinge made him turn and return to the bedroom. The sheets were still ruffled from their steamy morning tryst. The six-month anniversary gift he bought for Trevor hung on the bedroom wall, framed above the bed. It was a signed poster of Trevor’s favourite band, Disturbed.

With pencil and paper in hand, Ian’s green eyes wandered about the room, searching for the right words…and found them*.

Ten minutes later, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *refer to Chapter 12 for the letter.


	22. I Changed My Mind [Part Two]

The incessant pounding rattled the entire building awake, pissing off Ricky’s already pissed-off neighbours. It was 7 am and Ricky was ready to break someone’s legs. “You better be Mary Fucking Mother of Christ, or I swear to Jesus…" 

He cocked his gun, hid it behind his back and peeked through the peephole. One look at the noisemaker and he dropped his shoulders, releasing all tension from his muscles. “What the fuck, Ian?” He said as he un-cocked the gun and unlocked the door. Ian poured into the apartment, going straight to the bedroom with Ricky at his heels.

“Where are your car keys?” Ian asked, tossing pillows, clothes and trinkets as he fished about.

Ricky lifted both arms in disbelief. “Unbelievable. You haven’t come over in weeks and the first thing you wanna do is take my car??”

“I just need to borrow it for a couple of days.” Ian lied. He had no intention of returning to Chicago for a long, long time. “I have a friend up in Mexico, he needs me.”

The quality of Ricky’s expression changed. His frustration dissolved and something else rose in its place. “You say, Mexico?”

Ian paused in his frantic search to look at Ricky. “Yeah. Why?”

A corner of Ricky’s lips turned upwards into a half-smile. The smile that Ian knew better than to trust. Finally, Ricky said, “Yeah, okay. You can take the car.”

He fished the key from his pocket and dangled it seductively. When Ian moved to grab the keys, Ricky pulled back his hand and locked eyes with Ian. Their faces were less than three inches apart.

“On one condition.”


	23. I Changed My Mind [Part Three]

Dust, rocks and shrubs covered the landscape with yellow grass stretching up to meet an endless blue sky.

Ian bumped along to  _Despacito_ blasting on the car radio, feeling lighter than he’d felt in months. He was bursting with hope and a giddiness he could not shake, as he imagined all the scenarios that might play out when he was finally face-to-face with Mickey. Pterodactyls were flapping about his tired heart muscles, and he made a mental note to get some weed to calm down.

He forced his thoughts back to the task at hand. He first had to deliver a couple suitcases to Ricky's cousin, Samuel, on the way to Mexico. Apparently, the airline lost Samuel’s suitcases and he didn’t trust them anymore ( _fucking airlines always losing suitcases_ , Ian thought with a wicked grin).

“Since Oklahoma is on your way, it wouldn’t be a problem, right?” Ricky had said. When Ian looked unsure, he added, “Then you can keep the car as long as you want.”

That sealed it.

Norman was a city 20 miles south of downtown Oklahoma, more than a 12 hour drive from Chicago. Ian didn't mind the drive- it gave him plenty of time to lay out his plans. First, he needed to find Mickey, of course. But how? _No fucking idea. Maybe Mandy knows?_ Second, get a job. _That shouldn’t be a problem._ _I’m sure Mexico needs EMTs too_. What else? _We’ll need to get our own place. Probably a cheap apartment  while we save up money_. Once everything was settled he would call Fiona and everyone, and let them know he was okay. Knowing they’d try to stop him, he’d opted to stick a goodbye note on the refrigerator at the Gallagher house.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a familiar tree next to a state sign that read _Oklahoma_. He pulled over and approached it with a stupid smile on his face. He caressed the tree bark, recalling the time Damen was evicted from the car to give him and Mickey some ‘alone time’.

_Has it really been eight months? It feels like years…_

A familiar stirring crackled in his chest, igniting his loins and throbbing with urgent desire. He circled a quick glance to assure his privacy, then whipped off his belt in a single stroke and let his pants fall. Ghostly, tattooed fingers stroked his face and pulled his lips into an interlocking of hot magma with expert flicks of the tongue. His hands, _or the ghost’s hands_ , grabbed his flesh, teasing the tip into frothing eagerness. Slowly, then roughly, then almost urgently, the ghost guided him up and down, round and back, milking his need to the brink. The blue gaze never left his face, a wistful sadness in its expression. Ian exploded, a mixture of remorse, sadness and discarded dreams in its wake.

He stood there, spent, one hand on the rough bark of the tree, pants around his ankles and realised something.

_What if he doesn’t take me back?_

He had let Mickey go. Thrown him away. For what?For the life of him, Ian could not remember the argument that was so clear in his head eight months ago at the border, when he stood there and watched Mickey’s heart crack and splinter beneath that tough veneer. _He let him go._

Ian’s knees gave way as he flopped down on the rocky earth and let his arms hang lifelessly at his sides.

_What if he doesn’t want me back..._

Ian didn’t notice the Oklahoma police car parking next to his car. Didn’t notice when the officer got out, concerned then flustered then furious upon seeing his state of undress. Didn’t remember giving the officer his licence and registration. He didn't even notice when the officer’s dog starting barking at the trunk of his car. It was only when Ricky's cousin's suitcases were removed and their sides ripped open that Ian finally snapped back to the present moment. Several, large plastic bags of familiar-looking clear crystals stared back at him. He opened his mouth but found no words.

 “Sir, put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in the court of law…”


	24. A Fated Consignment

“The fuck you mean you didn’t get the consignment?” Mickey thundered. He was pacing up and down the poolside in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, white shorts and sandals. “You were supposed to get it two days ago!” _This was supposed to be my fucking day off._

Instead, he was handling a case that Valenciano wanted personally taken care of. Whenever there is an excess of product in one area and a shortage in another, it meant the dangerous task of transporting across state lines. There were too many variables, too many risks but losing money or wasting product was one thing Valenciano would not condone.

The voice on the other side of the phone was cowering. An associate, even a high ranking one, could get his brains blown out for saying the wrong thing to a lieutenant. Or worse, _not doing his fucking job_. Apart from the cops and the courts, the only person who could mess with a lieutenant is Valenciano…or God. Same thing.

“I’m sorry, boss,” the associate was pleading, “It never came through, I waited for it all day yesterday-”

“Who was responsible for delivery?” Mickey cut him off, not interested in sob stories.

“An associate in Chicago,” the voice answered. “They call him Slick Rick.”

“If he doesn't call me in the next five minutes, he’s a dead man.” Mickey said, hanging up.

Benjamin came out from the house, shirtless with matching white shorts and sandals. He was carrying a bottle of tequila and two large shot glasses, which he placed on the little round table between their pool chairs. He immediately began filling the glasses. 

Mickey's phone rang.

“Boss?” Slick Rick said, quietly. Mickey downed one glass and motioned for another.

“Where. Is. My. FUCKING. Consignment,” he growled into the phone. 

“I-I’m really sorry, boss.” Ricky stuttered. He was inside his apartment in Chicago, wishing a black hole would open up and transport him minutes, seconds even, before he handed his keys to that damn redhead. None of this would have happened.

“I-I sent someone to deliver it…the cops must have got him.” Ricky continued.

“Sent someone? Fuck you mean you _sent someone_?” Mickey was yelling now, no longer trying to contain his temper. “You _gave_ someone the consignment _?_ Are you a fucking moron? The little prick took the shit and ran!”

“He-he wouldn’t do that, boss, I know him…he’s pretty decent, dude doesn’t do drugs or nothing” Ricky was blabbering now, clutching straws, saying anything that would keep his head on his shoulders. “Besides, he didn’t even know about it, thought he was just delivering suitcases to my cousin-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey had heard enough. This wasn’t going anywhere. He let the tension drop from his shoulders, craned his neck, and went to sit down on the pool chair opposite Benjamin.

Running a wearied hand through his hair, he picked up the re-filled shot glass, brought it to his lips, and asked, “What’s the guy’s name?”

“His name’s Gallagher,” Ricky said, “Ian Gallagher.”

The whole world melted from his eyes. A ghostly hand reached into his chest and squeezed his dead heart until it started to beat again. Painfully. A film of salt water blurred his vision.

“Whoa!” Benjamin yelped, gripping Mickey's glass before it completely fell through his hands. Concerned, he leaned forward and clasped Mickey's knee. "“¿Qué pedo? Is it that bad? ”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, wiped his eyes and drew a sharp intake of breath. He didn’t trust his voice not to break so he made a task of tossing his phone aside and gulping the tequila. And another one. And one more.

Finally, he cleared his throat and forced himself to look at Benjamin, "It’s nothing.”

 


	25. INCARCERATED

The light afternoon breeze did nothing to cool Fiona as she tore down the sidewalk, Lip keeping stride beside her. Her eyes narrowed as she scrunched the soggy note in her fist. She was not going to let Ian fuck up his life _again_. Not when everything was going so good for him. They arrived at Trevor’s apartment, mounting the porch two steps at a time, and banged the door.

“Hold on, hold on, I’m coming…” responded an irritated voice from inside. Fiona kept banging, her lips set in a thin line. 

“Who the- ” Trevor began, as he opened the door. When he saw Fiona and Lip, he put a defensive arm on the doorframe and said, “What do _you_ want?” His tone was formal. Almost cold.

“Where’s Ian?” Fiona demanded as Lip pushed Trevor’s arm out of the away and stalked into the apartment.

 “Yo, Iaaan!” Lip called, searching through the corridors, opening doors.

Trevor shrugged dismissively and trudged back into the living room. “How the hell should I know?”

“Then what is this??” She un-scrunched the note and read it out loud:

 

I’M GOING AWAY FOR A LITTLE WHILE. I’LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING LATER. DON’T WORRY, I HAVE MY MEDS. LOVE, IAN

 

It was then that Fiona noticed all the neatly labelled boxes laid out on the living room floor. Trevor was ignoring her, removing the items one by one and returning them to their original spots around the apartment. All her incoherent thoughts slowed to a grinding halt, and she observed Trevor’s hunched back, his dull movements and inability to look her in the face. Her jawline softened, the wrinkle between her brows all but disappeared.

“…he really left, didn’t he?” she said, finally.

Trevor crouched next to a box labelled BEDROOM, and pulled out a large framed poster. He studied it as if making up his mind about something. “I don’t know where he is,” he said and disappeared into the bedroom. He returned holding out a letter* to Fiona. "But I know who he’s with. You guys have a much better chance of finding him than I do."

“What’s that?” Lip asked, craning his neck as Fiona skimmed the letter.

“ _Mickey,_ ” Fiona hissed. Lip snatched the letter and read it for himself.

Fiona’s phone rang. “What?” she answered curtly. Her eyes glossed over in a zombie-like air of disbelief as she stared, unseeingly, at the wall. On the other end of the line, the caller was saying:

“Ian Gallagher was arrested on a drugs possession charge…30 pounds of Methamphetamine…currently remanded at Oklahoma Department of Corrections…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter 12


	26. Road To Hell

The bus ricketed along the 1-70E, halfway through its eleven-hour journey to Cook County Corrections in Chicago. Due to the low number of transfers on this route, the prison service in Oklahoma opted for the long bus ride instead of a short flight.

More than enough time to regret ever setting eyes upon Slick Fucking Rick.

He scratched his thigh where the material on his orange jumpsuit was chafing his skin. He longed to run a hand through his newly shaved head, but his shackled arms prevented it. It reminded him of the good old days when he was in the ROTC, clean-shaven and clad in camouflage. Despite hard times, the sun was always shining back then. He had the Gallagher clan and Mandy and…

Ian stared out the window at the empty space of prairie whooshing by, the horizon stretched out as far as the eye could see. It reminded him of he and Mickey’s last journey on the open road, their whole lives ahead of them. Talking about good times. Talking about the future. _Their_ future.

He lifted his cuffed hands, jiggling the chain he shared with the inmate beside him, and smiled. _I guess I didn’t need Mickey to fuck up my life after all. I did it all by myself..._


	27. What's In It For Me?"

“Just…get it over with.”

Mickey was kneeling on the floor, his torso leaning forward on the narrow bed supported by his forearms. He was in Carlos’ apartment...with Carlos. 

Carlos stood behind him, completely naked except for a white T-shirt with an American flag on it. _How long I have waited for this day_. And now it was here. And there was Mickey. Bent over. Legs spread. Waiting for him. Carlos was etching the scene into a mental picture he would carry with him always.

“Are you doing this or not?” Mickey snarled. His jaw was set, his purpose clear. “And if you say one word, I’m going to pull your fucking teeth out, string em up into a fucking necklace and send it to your mom for Christmas.”

The clever retort at the tip of Carlos’ tongue dissolved and he cleared his throat. He was finally going to fuck the American. El Azul. Wordlessly, he began rubbing his stiff cock, teasing it into readiness. He moved closer, licked his index finger and teased the rosy flesh around Mickey’s hole. _So cute…_

Mickey grasped Carlos’ wrist and roughly twisted it. He shot Carlos a homicidal glint, his voice dark with flames: “I SAID GET IT OVER WITH.”

Carlos grinned, a little frightened and more turned on than before. _This_ was the American he had lusted for ever since he found him beating up a guy twice his size for trying to rob him outside a bar. It was only a few weeks into his arrival to Mexico but Carlos had somehow convinced Mickey to join the Venganza family. Since then he had watched him climb the ranks like a weed, his ruthless tenacity making a name for him within the family. When Arturo died, he was the obvious choice for lieutenant, despite the fact that he was still an associate at the time. Carlos, a falcon, was in awe of Mickey. A mixture of jealousy, lust and pride at discovering this little blue gem flamed his erections every night. Despite the fact that his advances were always rejected, Carlos never stopped hoping.

It finally paid off. Mickey needed him. It was finally his time to shine.

“You know I can do anything for you, boss.” Carlos said when Mickey had made his unthinkable request. “But going behind El Venganza is dangerous...very dangerous.” Carlos had then licked his lips suggestively. “What’s in it for me?”

And here they were.

Carlos grabbed Mickey's hips and rubbed his greedy tip against the pink rim. He heard Mickey groan and suck in air through his teeth, felt the hole tightening instinctually. He pushed carefully, feeding his length gradually up to the hilt. Mickey’s walls expanded, sucking him in then moulding itself around him in an unbearably hot grip. Carlos had never felt anything so glorious. This was going to be over even before it began, he realized, as he felt his climax hurtling towards him like a runaway train. 

Fifteen seconds later, he exploded in spurts and lay on top of Mickey, trembling and spent. 

“Get the fuck off me,” Mickey said, bucking him off. “Fucking pathetic.” He grabbed a towel from the floor and disappeared into the bathroom to jack off.


	28. Déjà Vu

“Yo, Nick! Look what we have here! Isn’t that your red-headed bitch from _Brave_?” 

Ian’s blood ran cold, the hair on the nape of his neck frozen into spikes. That voice… _You’ve got to be kidding me._ He lifted his eyes to see two guys ambling towards him from across the cafeteria.

“Oh shit, Salvador, you’re right!” Nick responded. He was tall and dark with a voluminous Afro and a careless swagger. Salvador stood beside him: less mean-looking, but his loyalty always ran so deep that if Nick asked him to hide a dead body his first question would be ‘Where?’

Ian tensed his muscles and stared back as they came to a stop at his table and grinned. Nick had the look of a man who could not believe that his wettest fantasy was sitting right there across from him, a precious short distance from his cock. 

“How you been, princess?” Nick asked, his voice oozing poisonous honey. 

Ian said nothing, putting enormous effort into steadying his composure. He stared at the spaghetti and meatball-looking ingredients on his plate and twirled a spool of it around his plastic fork, “What do you want, Nick?”

Nick clucked his tongue, swung himself over the long table to sit next to Ian. “Is that how you greet an old friend?” He said, wrapping an arm around Ian.

Salvador took the long route around the table and settled on Ian’s other side. Ian turned from Nick to face Salvador, “Things just weren’t the same when you left Gunderson. We missed you.” Salvador made a mock attempt at surveying the cafeteria for a missing person. “Where’s your brother?”

“Not here.”

“Awww, that’s too bad.” Nick said, a glint in his eye. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take _good_ care of you.”

Ian removed Nick's arm from his shoulder the same way one would pick a dead spider by its leg. “Uh, no thanks." 

“Gallagher!” someone yelled out. “Gibson wants to see ya. Something about your commissary.” The inmate had been sitting across the cafeteria, watching. He was at least six feet tall, stocky with a dark, with a slick ponytail. He made his way to Ian’s table. _Steven Seagal to the fucking rescue._

“Where is he?” Ian asked, relief washing over him. 

“I’ll take you,” his rescuer said, eyeing the two guys staring at Ian, smiles still plastered on their faces. 

Ian nodded and together they left the cafeteria. When they were out of earshot, Ian said: “Thanks, I owe you one,” he held out his hand. “Ian Gallagher.”

“Pedro Lopez,” said Pedro, taking his hand in a firm shake. “Careful of those two. I don’t like the look of them.”

“Tell me about it.”

Barely a week in and already there was trouble. It was years ago when he and Lip had first encountered them at the group home, and it had been trouble from the start. He remembered the slimy way Nick would scrutinize him and the nasty jokes designed to elicit his reaction. Luckily, he and Lip were released before anything serious happened. A sick knot twisted inside his stomach. 

He was clean out of luck. 


	29. So Wrong

Fiona watched the thin-lipped woman peer over her glasses to look up at her. Clearly, the stress of her job had added years to her complexion.

“Name?” the woman asked. 

“Fiona Gallagher. I’m here to see my brother, his name is Ian Gallagher.” 

The woman turned to the ancient-looking computer on her desk, and began scrolling and clicking away. The seconds ticked by slowly, fraying the last of Fiona’s nerves. _My name better be on that list this time_. She felt like moving past the line of red tape on the floor, but knew better. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time she’d visited (or been visited in) prison. 

The oldish-looking woman finally located her name, and half an hour later, she and a bunch of other people were herded into the visiting room. There were eight partitions, each fitted with Plexiglass down the middle of the counter with phones hooked to each side. Fiona chose the one furthest to the door.

A door buzzed open on the other side, and a steady file of inmates shuffled in with their bright orange jump suits. They responded to familiar faces with varying levels of sentiment. It was easy to tell which visitor was the lawyer, the friend or family member just from watching them. 

Fiona spotted her own familiar head of flaming red hair shuffling towards her, and let out a sigh of relief. He looked confused as he sat down, as if this were some dream that he was supposed to have woken up from by now. She pointed to his phone hook and brought hers up to her ear.

“This is not really happening,” he murmured, placing his palm on the Plexiglass.

She brought her palm up to meet his, and slowly nodded. “You look good.”

Ian managed a weak smile. “You too. How’s Lip and everybody?”

“We’re okay. Just worried about you.” She sniffed and stared at the sidewall of the partition. Now that she knew he was OK, relief gave way to the other emotion welling up inside her. She bit her lip and forced herself to look at him. “CHRIST, IAN, EVERYTHING WAS GOING SO WELL!” she squawked. When the other visitors stopped to look in her direction, she lowered it to a hiss. “ _For fucking Mickey Milkovich?!”_

Ian looked away. He raised the phone handle to his forehead, and shut his eyes. After a few moments, he opened them again and locked her brown eyes with his. “The last time I was here, I was sitting right where you are now. Talking to Mickey. Do you know when that was?" 

Fiona stared blankly. Ian tilted his head, and almost glared.

“Neither do I," he said, "I don’t fucking remember, because the last time I was here, Svetlana forced me to come. I didn't wanna see him.” He paused in silence and thumped his chest, which caused him to wince a little. That immediately put Fiona back into protective mode. 

“Are you hurt? What's wrong with your chest?” 

Ian waved away her concern and continued, “The last time I was here... Mickey was trying so hard to tell me how much he cared but I was too busy pretending not to care. All of this,” he motioned to the room in general, “happened because of me.” 

“Ian, listen to me. Mickey ask you to smuggle drugs to him, is that it?”

Ian shook his head, firmly.

“Why are you protecting him?? Did he threaten you? _Please_ , Ian. We need to get your story straight for the lawyer!”

The door buzzed open and two guards came in, signalling the end of the visit.

“You’re not listening to me, Fiona.” Ian said, standing up. “Mickey is the one that’s too good for me. Not the other way around.” He replaced the phone to its hook before she could respond and shuffled out of the room with the other inmates.

Fiona sat there for a long time, thinking. It wasn’t until a guard came in to escort her out that she realized how far her mind had travelled. Possibilities that she’d never even considered flowed into her, scenes from the past she had somehow refused to acknowledge… 

 

Mickey looking after Ian after his diagnosis…

Mickey protecting Ian…

Mickey going to jail because of Ian…

 

Safely outside the prison, Fiona turned back to look at the brick walls where her sweet, stupid, unfortunate brother was being imprisoned. How could she have been so wrong?


	30. A Lesson For Carlos

“Come in.”

Carlos had never stepped inside Luis ‘El Venganza’ Valenciano’s villa before. He’d come pretty close, once or twice. Sadly, however, his achievements within the Venganza family were always a little too south of mediocre.

Yet here he was, summoned personally to meet El Venganza. Carlos didn’t know whether to be terrified or overjoyed. 

Venganza was sitting at his black baroque throne chair, facing the fireplace. It was bright and sunny outside, but because of the blackout curtains lining the villa, the room was sombre with silhouettes from the fire. Carlos thought briefly of how well this effect instilled fear and awe into El Venganza’s subjects. It was as if one had descended into the crypts of hell itself.

“Do you know the whereabouts of Mikhailo Milkovich?” 

Carlos blinked. _Holy Shit_.

“Eh…that is…Don* Valenciano...”

“Carlos Garcia. I asked you a question.”

“Si, Don,” He cleared his throat quietly, and steadied his voice. “Mickey-Mikhailo went to Chicago to personally handle the consignment problem. He appointed me to handle his affairs while he’s away.” 

Valenciano stared at Carlos for a heart-stopping fifteen seconds before breaking into a smile. “I see. You are a foolish man, Carlos Garcia. Very foolish… ” Valenciano tilted his cheek on his palm and observed the terrified falcon, “but loyal.”

Carlos let out a breath and realized that he had been holding it all this while. Still, he wasn’t out of the woods yet. “Don?”

“I’m curious. How much did he pay you to lie to me?”

“Don, I would never- “ 

“Carlos,” Valenciano said, and there was no amusement in his voice this time. Only a sharp-edged blade that promised to slice out his tongue if any lies should come from it. 

“He…slept with me. In return, I would cover up his intentions to go to Chicago,” Carlos chanced a fleeting look at the Don. “…and never return.” 

Valenciano nodded slowly, and said nothing. This unnerved Carlos even more.

“I’m sorry, Don.” Carlos looked at Valenciano with a pleading mixture of guilt and remorse. Even though he really wanted to, he knew better than to fall on his knees and beg for mercy. Weakness was what the Don reviled most. Better to die honourably than as a quivering coward. He kept his gaze fixed to the ground and said: “I beg for forgiveness and accept your judgement.”

If Carlos had seen Valenciano’s grin, he would never have entertained such morbid thoughts. Alas, that rarest of smiles was gone by the time Carlos lifted his head, and Valenciano spoke:

“This will never happen again, is that understood?”

“Yes, Don.” Carlos did his best to remain sombre as the future once again spread out in front of him.

“Did you really think anything happens in this family without my knowledge?” 

Carlos lifted his eyebrows, confused.

“Never fear, Carlos. Mikhailo and I had a long chat before he left. He tried to lie to me as well.” Valenciano shifted his gaze back to the fire. “But there is one thing that he understands as well as I do…do you know what that is?” 

“No, Don.” 

“That the only thing more important than honour, loyalty and respect.” He flicked his hand and an associate appeared to escort a confused Carlos out of the villa. “…is family.”


	31. Fuss

Frank Gallagher took a swig of his ‘second’ beer (Kev’s back was turned when Frank helped himself to a third). At three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, there were only three other patrons at The Alibi, two of them daily regulars.

“Do you know what this country needs?” Frank began as the other two grumbled at the prospect of another one of Frank Gallagher’s rants. “A dictator. Someone who knows exactly what this country needs and isn’t afraid to rub people the wrong way every once in a while.”

“We have that already, Frank,” Kev asked, wiping down a clean glass. “Seems to me, it isn’t working out all that great.”

“No, no, no, I don’t mean _him_.” Frank shook his head vehemently. “I mean, someone like Margaret Thatcher. Now there was an Iron Lady! Britain was in a shit hole of a recession, what with inflation and budget deficits, unemployment through the roof! She brought them out of that dying economy and made them ‘great again’, forgive the phrase.”

“Yeah, but wasn’t she also against social welfare, and all about personal responsibility?” said one of the two regulars. “That wouldn't work so great for you, would it, Frank?”

Frank shrugged his shoulders and smiled, “I didn’t say she was perfect.”

“Shh!” Kev shushed as he turned up the volume on the TV behind the bar. Several journalists were reporting live at Cook County Corrections, scrambling to follow one man, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, being personally escorted into the prison by the FBI. It was a breaking news headline on national news.

 _So much fuss for one prisoner_ , Frank thought dismissively, and lifted his glass for a sip. His eyes widened as he read the crawling headlines, however, and he took a second look at the star prisoner. He was about 5’7”, with slick black hair, pale blue eyes and tattoos on his knuckles. He had seen those tattoos a thousand times before.

“Holy shit,” Kev muttered under his breath.

“Well, would you look at that...” Frank couldn’t help but grin as he watched the commotion unfolding onscreen.  _I’m happy for you son_.


	32. IAAAN GALLAGHEEEEER!

A lot had happened in the three weeks since Ian Gallagher came to Cook County Corrections.

Several people had come to visit, including former workmates, neighbours and of course the entire Gallagher clan. Even Frank had made a point of coming regularly. The most unexpected visit, however, came from Trevor. It wasn’t pleasant but necessary. Ian answered every question that was asked, plainly and truthfully. Closure, at last.

A few days after his last visit with Fiona, Ian had his day in court. The judge had been fairly lenient, considering it was his first conviction: a 2-year sentence, with eligibility for parole in 18 months.

18 months… _could be worse_. If he kept his head down, and minded his own business, he might make it through without serious injury or traumatic experiences. Ever since their encounter, Ian had somehow managed to stay clear of Nick and Salvador. He’d also managed to get himself assigned to the Health Center. This happened as a stroke of pure luck. At some point during his daily visits for bipolar medication and mandatory counselling sessions, the medic discovered that Ian was an EMT and recommended him for a ‘nurse’ work assignment. Due to budget cuts and overcrowding, the Health Center was severely understaffed, so it was a no-brainer to hire a low-cost inmate for the job (even one with bi-polar disorder). Today was his third day on the job. Ian was on a roll.

Or so he thought.

The Health Center was located at the remote South East section of the prison, far removed from the general population. This served Ian just fine. Less people meant more time to himself and his thoughts. He was buzzed into the nursing ward at 6.30pm, just in time for his shift. The nurse at the desk leaped when she saw him, gathering up her things and pulling on her jacket. 

“Just in time, Gallagher! I’m going to miss my bus, and you know everybody get cranky when dinner’s not on table when they get home!” she fussed, a pleasant smile on her face. She handed him a lanyard with a temporary key card for the door, and a set of keys for the cabinets.

Ian smiled back. He appreciated how Jan always treated him as a co-worker and not an incarcerated felon. She kind of reminded him of Sue and his days at the station. His eyes stung a little at the memory. “What are y’all having tonight?”

“Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and coleslaw- courtesy of KFC” Jan laughed boisterously and swiped her card at the door. “It’s slow tonight, hardly any emergencies, but remember: if anything happens that you can’t handle, Dr. Gruen is on call, just press 3 on speed dial. Finnigan will be here at 8.30pm to sign you out and escort you back to your cell. Enjoy your shift!” she waved and disappeared out sight. 

Ian was finally alone in the clean, well-lit center. He stood there for a few minutes, revelling in the silence. In the nursing ward, there were four beds in a row separated by green curtains on one side, and shelving units with equipment and medicine on the other. In a smaller room, adjacent, was a filing cabinet and boxes of files waiting to be catalogued and entered into the system database. Ian went to grab a box when he heard the sound of a door buzzing open, followed by footsteps entering the ward. Jan probably forgot something.

Ian lifted a box and turned to leave the storage room, saying: “You’re definitely going to miss the bus this ti-” 

The world went dark for a moment, and there was an unmistakable crack of bone meeting bone as Ian toppled onto the boxes behind him. The pain was instant and crippling; the attacker had landed a clean hook to his right temple. Dizzy and confused, Ian propped himself up on his elbows. 

They stood there, towering over him. Nick, Salvador…and two other prisoners that he didn’t know by name but recognized. They were always lurking around the block, in the workout area, during movie nights. Always watching and leering, un-dressing him with their eyes. Like they were doing now.

 _Holy Shit_.

“Do you know how long we’ve waited for this moment, Princess?” Nick grinned, sticking both arms out to the side. Salvador smiled, next to him. “It ain’t easy catching you alone without that bodyguard always hanging around. What’s his deal anyway?” 

 _…Pedro?_ Ian had seen him around but they hadn’t spoken since that day in the cafeteria.

“Lucky for us, the Mexican Hulk was pretty distracted today just like everybody else,” Nick continued. 

“Yo, there’s even beds in here,” Lurker #1 said, sticking his tongue out and grabbing his crotch, “Looks like we’re about to have ourselves a real good time!”

“Just remember. I go first.” Nick said, rubbing his hands together.

Ian shakily got up on one knee, then the other, until he was finally on his feet. He looked at the four intruders, one after the other, and feigned a calmness he did not feel. This was much worse than he had prepared for. All he wanted to do was run. 

“Guys. Just go. Finnigan will be here any minute.”

A bolt of panic flashed across the Lurkers’ eyes, but to Ian’s dismay, Nick and Salvador remained cool as cucumbers. 

“Relax, fellas, he’s bluffing,” Nick said. He tilted his head to devour a different angle of Ian's crotch with his eyes, “I paid Finnigan. We got the place to ourselves for the next two hours. Scream all you want, Princess. No one’s coming to save you. ” 

Ian weighed his options. He was no stranger to street brawls; growing up a Gallagher in their neighbourhood had made sure of that. On top of that, experience in ROTC and the short stint at the army gave him an edge in any fight. But this was four against one. They weren’t taller than him, though, and he didn’t lose to any of them on muscle. Mickey was right about one thing: there really _wasn’t_ much else to do in here but work out.

The thought of Mickey drove Ian to laugh uncontrollably. The situation before him was so bleak it was comical. He laughed so hard, his sides hurt. The four guys watched him, somewhat nervously.

Quick as flash, Ian lunged at Lurker #2 on the far right, knocking him out with a clean shot between the eyes. He was out cold. That snapped the other three into attention, and they moved to encircle him. A few tense seconds passed in which it became clear that Ian wasn't going to go down as easily as they had expected. Salvador threw a liver blow, which Ian managed to side step, seizing Salvador’s arm as it swung past and thrusting a sharp knee into his gut. Salvador gasped for air and fell on his knees. Lurker #1 used this chance to come up from behind Ian and grasp his arms into a gridlock. Nick pulled back his arm and delivered a devastating blow to Ian’s stomach. Lurker #1 released his grip, and Ian to toppled onto his knees, gasping for breath. Now that they had subdued their prey, they loosened they muscles and took turns kicking him and cackling insults. Even Salvador was getting up.

It started as a far-away cry that grew louder each moment. That voice...so familiar. So heart-wrenchingly familiar...Thunderous footsteps were closing in now. Then the voice called out again, and this time it was a deafening bellow from the depths of his memories. He dared not believe it. 

“IAAAN GALLAGHEEEEER!”


	33. Eye Of The Storm

 Ian instinctively wrapped his arms around his chest, leaving his head and gut open to merciless kicks and thrashes. He pulled up his knees and tucked his head into a foetal position. As the attack began to wane, Ian willed himself to accept the inevitable. Their anger would soon be spent and desire would take center stage...this was his life now.

The first time Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich blew into Ian’s life like a Category 5 hurricane, they were just a couple of kids growing up in a dirty neighbourhood, trying to turn shit into roses. So many people condemned their relationship because they didn't know what Ian knew: the eye of the storm is the safest place to be.

And that storm just blew in.  

“GET THE FUCK OFF HIM” was all he heard before a thunderous brawl erupted. Glass shattered, furniture splintered into weapons, fists crackled and bodies were flung. Ian’s heart palpitated wildly against his chest, already three sizes too big. He struggled to lift his puffy eyelids but all he could make out were the blurry figures being manhandled out of the room before a migraine sliced through his head.

He slowly shut his eyes, uncurled from his foetal position and let the fog lull him into darkness... 

 _What a fucked up dream_.


	34. What Bitches Do

Mickey returned to the storage room to find Ian sprawled on the floor, eyes closed. He was so still and dead-looking that Mickey rushed to check his neck for a pulse. He let his shoulders sag, sank to the floor, arms propped on his knees, and chuckled. _I could kill for a fucking cigarette right now_ , he thought, gazing up at the ceiling.

He ran a hand through his hair and studied Ian’s face.  It was heavily bruised, and his eyes were swollen. _Probably his entire body, too_. Mickey’s gaze trailed over Ian’s muscled legs and rippling biceps. A smile curled up the left side of his mouth. _Jesus Christ, Gallagher_ , thought Mickey, gently stroking Ian’s cheek, _why do I keep chasing after you?_

 

 _Because you’re a bitch,_ replied the stony voice from deep within. _And that’s what bitches do._

 

Mickey withdrew his hand from Ian as if from a snakebite. His smile vanished, and a familiar hardness glazed over Mickey’s heart.

 “ _Don,_ ” said an inmate, entering the storage room. “Those _cabrones_ took off. What should we do with him?” The inmate nodded towards the unconscious Ian lying on the floor.  

Mickey shot back to his feet, flexing his shoulders and neck muscles as if to loosen the shirt on his back. Without a backward glance, he walked past the inmate and out of the room.

 

“Leave him.”


	35. A Dream Come True

The sound of Jan humming Sunday cartoons crept closer with each passing minute.

Ian blinked his eyes against the bright light. He attempted to lift his head, only to be washed over by an excruciating wave through his entire body. He groaned, clutching his head with one hand and shielding his eyes with the other.

Jan whooshed in from the reception area and swooped Ian into a giant eagle hug. “Thank _goodness_ , you’re awake!” She poked and prodded Ian into full consciousness. “I was so worried about you!”

“What time is it?” Ian asked, his voice a distant murmur.

“It’s 5pm. Finnigan found you unconscious on the floor,” She gestured toward the man sitting in the corner. Finnigan flashed a crooked smile that sent shivers down Ian’s spine. _Finnigan_ …

“I’ll notify Dr. Gruen that you’re awake.” Jan said, considerably calmer. “How do you feel?”

“Just a little sore,” Ian replied, trying to smile for Jan.

She relaxed and returned his smile. A crinkle appeared on her forehead, however, as she moved her hands to rub his chest. Ian winced.

“Thank God it’s not infected,” Jan’s eyes trailed back to Ian’s face. “Why would you do that to your self? What does it mean?”

Ian put his hand over Jan’s. “Don’t worry about it…got anything for a headache?”

She nodded and bustled away.

“Sore, huh?” Finnigan chimed in, once Jan was out of earshot. “I guess you put up a pretty good fight. Tell me, just between us…” He rose and approached the bed, tracing his fingers along the blanket, “did you enjoy it?”

 

_Mickey!_

 

Ian stared at the ceiling. His right hand clutched his chest and squeezed. Pain and relief poured into him like spring water in a desert. Still smiling, Ian said, “I guess you’ll have to ask them, huh?”

“What are you boys so happy chatting about?” Jan had returned with a tray of assorted medicines and a glass of water.

Ian sat up and grinned. “I was just thanking Finnigan for helping me out last night.”


	36. Van Damme

It didn’t take long for Ian to figure out that Mickey was avoiding him.

 

He sat down on a bench at the far end of the courtyard with a resigned look on his face and smoked the cigarette he had received from a guard in return for fixing his busted knee. Ian’s thoughts trailed off as he idly watched his fellow inmates playing basketball, walking around and lifting weights…

Housing almost 2000 inmates in 4 cellblocks, Cook County Corrections was one of the most crowded prisons in the country. Even though the 8-by-12-foot cells were built for single occupancy, the prison would often assign two, even three prisoners to one cell. It was not uncommon for fights to erupt up to 6 times a day, mostly at night. Ian had tended more stabs and broken limbs in the prison health center than he’d seen in his life. 

To ease overcrowding, the prison periodically released inmates with lighter charges to make room for more dangerous criminals. It was one of the reasons Ian only got an 18-month sentence. He was even more grateful that the prison chose to isolate prisoners with diagnosed mental health problems. Thanks to his bipolar disorder, he was one of the few prisoners who had a cell all to himself.

Still, the prison wasn’t _so_ crowded that you couldn’t find somebody if you really wanted to. Especially a _star_ prisoner.  It had been almost ten days since the attack, and Ian hadn’t laid eyes on Mickey. He’d asked every patient, guard and inmate he could talk to. He got nothing.

 

As Ian was making a mental note to have his meds balanced, a familiar face strolled towards him. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” Ian said, as he smiled and reached out his hand. “How you doing, man?”

Pedro Lopez smiled and shook Ian’s hand. “You’re a hard man to track.”

“Yeah, I like to keep to myself. The less I’m seen, the better.” Ian said, offering Pedro the last drags of his cigarette. They sat in silence for several minutes watching inmates milling about the yard.

“Heard you’ve been looking for somebody…” Pedro said casually, inhaling deep and blowing an expertly shaped cloud.

Ian stared at Pedro, stunned. Finally he asked, “You know something?”

Pedro nodded, flicking away the cigarette butt. “Heard you like Van Damme.”

Ian managed to nod, slightly. The tender spot on his chest became hot and prickly, again. Pedro continued, “It’s been a while since I saw a good action movie. We should watch one sometime. Thanks for the smoke, man.”

Pedro got up and left Ian to deal with his racing thoughts.


	37. Date Night

As the opening credits of _Universal Soldier_ flashed on the wall, Ian Gallagher’s eyes were everywhere but on the movie. The screening room for Cellblock C had about 200 seats but Mickey was not in any of them. _Did I miss something?_

Ian ignored the sound of inmates cheering at Van Damme’s entrance, choosing instead to burn a hole through the screening room door. The seat on his left was still empty but as more inmates filed in, Ian worried that he wouldn’t be able to hold on to it much longer.

 

“Sup, Princess,” came a silky voice from the seat behind.

 _Ugh_. Ian didn’t even turn his head. He stiffened in his chair, and kept his eyes trained on the door.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Nick continued, almost regretfully. “You shoulda told me your pretty ass was already spoken for.”

A large, dark figure occupied the seat on Ian’s left, the one reserved for Mickey. Nick gave an audible sigh, bid them both ‘adiós’ and left. Ian turnedto Pedro. “Where’s Mickey?”

 

> “Looking for me?”

 

Ian’s heart screeched to a halt. Thisvoice came from the seat directly behind Pedro, next towhere Nick had been.

 “ _Mickey?”_ Ian hissed, and belted around like a spring. There he was, wearing a hoodie and sunglasses (contraband), looking sun-kissed and tequila-fresh. The twelve months between them melted away like a fog in the winter, and Ian was overwhelmed with the feeling of coming _home._ Mickey’s icy blues crinkled, as flashed Ian a brilliant smile.

“Ian Gallagher,” Mickey said, softly. The words covered him like a warm blanket in stormy weather.

Ian’s world and everything in it felt insignificant up until this moment. How had he lived so long without the crinkle of those blue eyes, the feel of those tattooed knuckles, that outrageously arrogant voice? Ian fought down the hopelessly foolish idea that somehow Mickey was in here because of him. He didn’t dare to believe it, couldn’t possibly be that selfish to wish for it.  

Whatever the reason was, he was not going to let go of this opportunity. He would get Mickey back if it killed him.

 

And it probably would _._


	38. Deal Or No Deal

Mickey couldn’t help it.

The second their eyes met, he was back in Chicago, strutting in the street, chugging cold beers (how he missed those beers), enjoying endless summers and stupid shenanigans. This was the only boy who could make his heart stop and his rage evaporate. Here he was now with the same stupid smile on his face he had the first time Mickey kissed him. That look of wonder and pure joy. How could one person be so tough and so fucking sweet at the same time? It was the paradox that drew Mickey to him in the first place. Like a fucking fly trap.

 

Draws you in, then fucks you over.

 

Dumped after taking revenge on Ian’s sister… abandoned in prison… dumped again at the Mexican border. Mickey’s smile faded with each memory, an icy film encasing the parts of him that wanted nothing more than to wrap around the goofball with puppy dog eyes.

 “This ain’t a fucking reunion, Gallagher,” Mickey said, the warmth in his smile replaced with something cold and synthetic, business-like. Mickey could literally hear Ian’s heart beat amplifying. “I came to offer you a deal. Protection, but it’ll cost ya.”

Ian looked so confused. His smile began to fade as well. “…what’s going on, Mickey?”

“Face the front.” Mickey’s tone was short, curt.

Ian frowned, and turned back in his seat. He glanced over at Pedro on his left, on the seat he’d kept free for Mickey. Pedro shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Ian stared blankly at Van Damme as pieces of the puzzle began arranging themselves. One thing was for sure: Mickey was pissed.

Finally, without turning, Ian asked, “…what is it?”

Mickey leaned forward in his seat, close enough so Ian could hear. “All you have to remember is… you’re my bitch now. ”


	39. First Time

It became crystal clear what Mickey’s ‘deal’ was all about.

 

Ian could be anywhere- his cell, the yard, the cafeteria- but when he got ‘summoned’, usually by a Mexican inmate, he had to drop everything and go. At first, the idea was very appealing. He had a serious hard-on for Mickey since leaving Chicago on this stupid goose chase... since leaving him at the Mexican border…. _shit_ , since the day Mickey robbed Kash’s convenience store when they were 15 years old.

 

But Ian didn’t realize that being Mickey’s bitch literally meant being Mickey’s _bitch_.

 

“Turn around, drop your pants.” Mickey ordered, the first time Ian walked into his cell with Pedro. He was playing cards with two other goons sitting on the bed.

Ian looked at Pedro, and then other two. They looked at each other, and promptly got up to leave the room.

“Don’t go too far,” Mickey called after them, putting down his hand, “I wanna finish the game.”

“What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian said as he approached Mickey.

Mickey held up a hand, signalling him to stop. “This ain’t no social call, Gallagher. I said, drop your pants.”

Ian blinked and stared, fighting with the realization of what was to come. Then Mickey smiled, genuinely this time, melting the edge of Ian’s defences. “We’re in prison, remember?”

Still, something about that smirk made Ian uneasy and he felt a morbid premonition of the days to come. He tried again, “Can we at least talk?”

Mickey shook his head, “No talking. Get over here.”

 

Ian stared at Mickey for a long minute before relenting. He checked around to make sure no one was watching, then cleared his throat and swallowed hard. How many nights had he fantasized about bottoming for Mickey? After experiencing it with Trevor, he immediately regretted all the lube-less roughness he’d subjected Mickey to. Ian now found himself turning beet red as he moved towards the bed.

He knelt down and glanced at Mickey, who looked every bit as cold as the day he married Svetlana. Ian decided to retreat into his stronghold and store his feelings away for safekeeping. As he leaned forward on the bed, head on hands, hands on elbows, he fortified the defences around his resolve. He wasn’t going to let anything come between him and Mickey ever again. _Not even you, Mickey_.

Ian closed his eyes with bated breath, and braced himself for the pain. When it came, it was hot and unbearably heavy, sharper than anything he’d previously experienced. Without ease or preparation, Mickey drove himself in with one hard thrust and filled himself to the hilt. Ian gasped and fought for breath. He tried relaxing his muscles and steadying his breathing, but every pump was a feverish bolt of pressure and pain. He tried adjusting and re-adjusting the angle of his hips, the curve of his back, anything to release the build up only for it double up again.

 

“Wait, wait, wait-” Ian said in between gasps, reaching back and pushing back on Mickey with one arm. Mickey was relentless.

 Ian grasped the sheet and let out a guttural yell. Nothing about this was coming from a place of love. It felt so… _angry_. Like something that would end only when Mickey wanted it to end, when his rage was spent. Like there was something inside him that wanted to destroy Ian.

 

Ian was terrified.


	40. Times Of War

“How is he?” Mickey asked, when Pedro returned from Ian’s cell.

“He’s a tough kid,” Pedro replied with a sideways glance at his boss, “…you think maybe you were a lil too rough on him, Boss?”

“You think maybe you wanna mind your own business?” Mickey responded, a razor-edge in his tone.

Pedro quickly raised his hands in compliance, “Any work today?”

“We got business with Los Jóvenes,” Mickey said, not taking his eyes off the shank he was cleaning. The set of his shoulders told Pedro more than he needed to ask.

 

There was something about El Azul that scared the living shit out of Pedro. Especially moments like this when his mind was so far away and you could see the war behind the ice, the man behind the bull. Whatever was troubling Azul, it had something to do with that kid, Gallagher. He was important enough that El Venganza himself assigned Pedro to watch over him. Pedro couldn’t see the connection until the day Azul came to prison. As luck would have it, the one day Pedro took his eyes off Ian to welcome Azul is the day everything went to shit. Now he finds out that the kid is Azul’s bitch but…something wasn’t right. Azul had been on him almost every day for the last two weeks. The days he wasn’t, he would get worked up or pissed off, just stare into space for long periods of time. _Boss is too concerned about the whole thing._ Pedro wanted no part of it. Gallagher was a good kid, not the type to be mixed up in this kind of shit.

 

He looked up to see Mickey getting up and signalling towards the door. Pedro grabbed a razor blade from underneath the mattress and followed.

 

_Time for war._


	41. Silent Conversations

Ian woke up the next day, exhausted. He had slept in fits and starts the whole night. He was acutely aware of the pain in his lower back and legs, as well as his abdominal area. Sitting had also become a problem; he had to stand most of the day and lie down whenever he could.

Ian didn’t think it would be like this. Sure, Mickey was going to be mad but not like this. Not for this long. It had been two weeks now, and Ian was starting to believe that this ‘deal’ between them was just that. A deal. Maybe there was no Happily Ever After in the cards for them.

It would always happen in a secluded spot; as secluded as it can get in prison, which isn’t much. There was always one or two inmates watching, and sometimes they would even jerk off while watching.

Ian quit trying to talk to him after hitting a solid wall of ice the first couple of times. It was a cold, business transaction. Still, as brief and exacting as those moments were, Ian felt like he could ‘listen’ to Mickey. A lot was being said between those unyielding thrusts. Ian would shut his eyes and try not to fight, which was hard at times. He would look for the rhythm and try to match it, grunt for grunt. He cradled Mickey inside, sore as he was, and tried to say something back. He didn’t want to let go of him again. And his heart would break when Mickey withdrew because, sooner or later, he might have to.

Ian had gotten into the habit of carrying a chunky wad of tissue paper in his pocket to clean up afterwards. He would wipe himself as much as possible, pull up his pants and sink to the ground. Sometimes, he would just stay there for hours, contemplating his existence.

It was during one of those times, as Ian was leaning against those walls, broken and confused, that he came to a decision that changed the course of their lives for years to come. He was done with this bullshit. No more deals. No more ‘protection’. He was going to have Mickey, all of him, or none at all.


	42. A Bald Head & A Ponytail

“Ian…Ian! Wake up.” Ian roused to find Jan shaking his shoulders, crouched next to him in the storage room of the health center. She held out a cup of coffee. “Your shift has started.”

Still groggy, Ian sat up and accepted the cup. “Thanks,” he sipped the warm, brown liquid, letting it stir him back into being. “And thanks for letting me crash here for a bit.”

“You needed it. I’ve never seen you so lethargic. Are you coming down with something?” She placed a palm over his forehead to check his temperature. “Temperature is normal. Not much sleep?”

Ian nodded, and got on his feet to avoid further questioning. “I’m alright, though. You should be getting home.”  

She nodded and handed him the lanyard with a temporary key card for the door, and the keys for the medicine cabinet. “ _Remember_ ,” she added, in her sternest mother hen impression. “Dr Gruen is no. 3 on speed dial. I don’t want you falling unconscious again. Understood?”

Ian smiled, “Yes, ma’am.”

Thirty minutes later, Ian was taking the daily inventory of medical supplies when the door buzzed open. A prison guard he didn’t recognize brought in two prisoners with him. One was Ian’s height, with a lean build and long hair held back in a ponytail. The other was slightly shorter, more muscular and bald. Their torsos, sleeves and pant legs were riddled with blood. 

The prison guard addressed him, “Can you patch these two up?” He peered at Ian’s key card. “Be quick about it, Inmate.”

Ian handed over the clipboard with the sign in sheet and guided the guard toward the reception desk. He led the two prisoners to the examination room and had them sit down while he brought out the medical kit.

He examined the tall, pony-tailed one first. A deep gash ran down his right thigh and several cuts lined his torso. “Well, at least the bleeding stopped…how did this happen?”

“Mind your business, ése,” The bald one cut in. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how you got these wounds,” Ian responded smoothly. He turned to face Baldie.

No response.

Ian immediately stopped his examination and straightened up. “We’re done here, then. Good luck fixing your own problems.” He began crossing the room to the door.

“Eh! Eh!” Ponytail said. “We’ll tell you, alright? Jeez.”

The two argued in rapid Spanish as Ian returned to his original spot, crossed his arms and waited. He didn’t have time for this today.

Finally, Baldie spoke up. “There was a fight in the yard. These suckers jumped us. We got cut. End of story.”

“What weapons did they have?”

“Shanks. One of them razor blades”

Ian frowned. “When was the last time either of you had a tetanus shot?”

The way they looked at each other told Ian that neither of them even knew what a tetanus shot was.

“Alright, alright. Just sit tight,” He examined Baldie and discovered the same wounds, but on his arms and across the back of this shins. “The smaller cuts just need steristrips, but you’ll both need stitches on the deep cuts. And tetanus shots.”

He opened the kit and brought out the strips, iodine, saline, needles and suture materials. After cleaning his hands and putting on gloves, Ian got to work ‘patching up’. It only took him about 25 minutes. 

“Alright, fellas.” Ian declared, as he finished dressing the last wound on Baldie. “No more fighting or your wounds will open back up. Come back every day to get fresh bandages and antibiotics. We’ll remove your stitches in about a week.”   

“Thanks, Doc.” Ponytail said.

Ian began cleaning up, replacing some supplies in the kit.  “I’m no doctor, man. I’m just an inmate, like you.”

“Still. We appreciate it, man,” Baldie chimed in, grinning. “Muchos gracias.”

“Alright, enough with the mush.” He shook their hands in a show of solidarity. “Stay out of trouble.”

They found the guard pacing the room in the reception area. “It’s about time,” the guard said, putting them back in cuffs and leading them towards the door. “Stay out of trouble, Gallagher.”

Ian thought he saw a bewildered expression pass between Ponytail and Baldie at the mention of his name. They looked at each other, and then like clockwork, both turned to stare at him.

 

 _What the fuck is it_ now _?_


	43. A Mating Call

Two days passed and neither Ponytail nor Baldie had shown up to dress their wounds or take their antibiotics. Ian was now sure that he hadn’t misread the signals. Something changed in both of them when they heard his name. Did he know them from somewhere?

Ian puzzled over it during lunch in the cafeteria. He sat at the most secluded table on the furthest corner of the hall, and kept his head down. Ian was so glad he could actually _sit_ and eat in public. He had somehow managed to duck and dive Mickey and his goons by staying away from his usual spots and not returning to his cell until count. Those three ‘days off’ had been good for mind, body and spirit, and even though it was inevitable, Ian wanted to avoid that confrontation for as long as possible.

He thought about the visit from Lip and Liam that morning and his spirits lifted considerably. It was so nice to just sit and talk with his brothers, and not think about anything but the math test scores Liam was excited about. Frank was up to his usual shenanigans- running for City Council as a dummy candidate; Fiona was shacking up with her new business partner, a sexy brunette called Lydia who could make a mean spaghetti and meatballs (“But I like yours better, Ian _”_ Liam interjected); Lip had been officially clean for two months; Carl was almost completing military school; Debbie was taking her certification exams for electrical next month; and Liam was just as adorable as ever. Veronica and Kev were doing OK, too, and sent their love. Lip reminded Ian that he was a Gallagher. Tough as nails and dirt. Told him to remain strong and keep his head down, it would all be over soon.

Ian fiddled with the baby carrots on his plate, not realising he had a stupid grin on his face. Not until he had to wipe it off two seconds later.

“Ian Gallagheeeeer!”

That grin instantly melted and oozed down Ian’s face to the floor, leaving an empty shell that sank to the bottom of the chair. The same sound that had been so desperately desired was now a mating call from an insatiable bull that wanted to tear Ian apart. A sharp throb in his anal region reminded Ian that he could not tolerate any more lube less encounters.

Unfortunately for redheads the world over, Ian Gallagher incorporated, it didn’t take too long for him to be spotted. Half of the inmates in hall had already seen him on his knees, against a wall or bent over a rail somewhere, and they probably wanted to see more. They were all so eager to please Mr. Mexican Mafia over there.

 

Ian was _pissed_.

 

His muscles tensed as Mickey and two new goons approached his table. Hot blood coursed through Ian’s veins, and he could feel it pumping oxygen, releasing adrenaline. Slowly, deliberately, he looked up and stared directly into Mickey and couldn’t believe it took him this long to stand up for himself.

 

Ian Gallagher was _nobody’s_ slave.


	44. Game Over

A part of Mickey felt gratified to see Ian staring back at him so bitterly. He was waiting for this to happen. Waiting for little Ian Gallagher to reach his breaking point and run away again.

“You didn’t hear me calling you, Gallagher?” Mickey said in a mocking tone.

“What do you want?” Ian replied.

“Where you been the last couple of days?” Mickey asked.

“I said, what do you want?” Ian countered.

Mickey cocked his head, mentally applauding Gallagher’s bravery. Forgetting himself, he said: “Tough guy, huh?”

The moment the words came out, Mickey regretted them.  He had entered forbidden territory. He thought he saw a break in Ian’s composure too, but it quickly closed up again. Had he imagined it?

Ian cleared his throat. “I’m done with this, alright.” He hardened his words and leaned forward. “Find someone else to be your fucking cum dumpster.”

The pseudo smile returned, and Mickey was back in full form. He sat on top the table and plucked the plastic fork from Ian’s hands.  “Look around you, Gallagher,” Mickey said. He stabbed three baby carrots and dumped them in his mouth, chewing loudly, openly. “You wouldn’t last two fucking seconds without me.”

Ian stood and narrowed his eyes on Mickey. “You think I took this deal because I needa fucking caretaker??” he asked, incredulous.

Mickey kept smiling that fake, plastic smile. Ian wanted was to knock his teeth out. He walked around the table, and began making his way towards the exit when Mickey grabbed his arm.

“It’s not fucking over til I say it is,” Mickey said.  

Ian gently placed his own arm over Mickey’s, and wrenched it off with such force that Mickey’s entire right side swung back. Chairs and tables scraped the floor, as Mickey’s goons jumped into the fray, two of them pinning Ian’s arm behind his back.  Ian maintained his composure, but his body language was radiating first-degree murder. If he was going out, it wasn’t without a fucking fight.

Mickey was seething, balling and unballing his fingers into fists. He ran a hand down his face, then poked Ian’s chest with it. After an age of razor sharp tension, Mickey gave a silent flick of the head to his goons, and they immediately released Ian.

Ian rubbed his wrists and made for the exit without a backwards glance.

***

Once outside the cafeteria, Ian headed straight for the little nook behind the water fountain, his secret spot- a narrow space between two walls that was hidden from view- and sank down against the wall. His heart was beating so loudly and he couldn’t stop shaking. His head was threatening to split, and he sat there, calming his breath. He felt like a windup doll that had been ripped apart from its control box. Ian buried his head in his hands, tucked it between his knees and waited for the storm to pass. There was no place for weakness anymore.


	45. Vindication

Mickey was a dense ball of pressure that could explode at any second. His goons sensed it immediately and kept a fair distance the whole way back. As soon as they were back in the cell, they disappeared to a safe distance within the guarding perimeter. Pedro was the only one who dared remain close.

Mickey paced the room, back and forth, up and down. He stopped at the mirror and stared. Just when Pedro thought he was beginning to calm down, Mickey lunged forward, and smashed his forehead into the mirror, cracking it. Bits of glass spattered to the floor.

“I’ll be in the yard,” Pedro said, moving towards the building exit. “I got smokes.”

Mickey followed soon after and found Pedro sitting on a bench at the far end of the courtyard. When he saw Mickey approaching, he retrieved a lighter taped underneath the bench, and pulled two cigarettes from his pocket.

A short while later, Pedro ventured in. “Are we done with Gallagher now?”

Mickey kept smoking and didn’t answer.

Pedro ventured further. “He meant something to you, didn’t he?”

“The fuck you talking about, man,” Mickey said.

Pedro fought the urge to back down or change the subject. He had a strong conviction that they needed to talk about this. Ever since he came into the prison, Azul was like a man on the edge of a cliff, wanting so badly to end it all but equally afraid to let go.  

“You and Gallagher-”

“Careful, Lopez…” Mickey warned, as he puffed out a stream of smoke.

Pedro sighed, “I just don’t understand, Boss. If the man came all the way to Mexico just to look for you-”

“-what?” Mickey raised an eyebrow.

Pedro frowned and turned to face Mickey. He looked genuinely surprised.  “You didn’t know?”

Mickey said nothing, as realization scaled above Pedro like the rising dawn. “The kid got busted on his way to Mexico to look for _you_ , Boss.”

Mickey said nothing for a long minute. Pedro noticed that he’d stopped smoking. Finally Mickey asked, “Who the fuck told you that?”

“Slick Rick, associate in Chicago” Pedro sped on. “Gallagher was in a hurry to leave town and needed to borrow his car. Said something about finding something he’d lost in Mexico.”

Mickey resumed smoking, “Doesn’t mean anything,”

“That kid ain’t got nobody or nothing else in Mexico and you know that.” Pedro replied, a little exasperated.

“Keep talkin’ and I’ll choke you with your shoelaces and string you up the fucking flagpole.”

Pedro raised both hands in surrender, flicked away his cigarette butt and stood up. As he began to cross the yard, he turned once more and recited the Venganza family creed. “The only thing more important than honour, loyalty and respect is family. Right, Boss?”

Pedro then bowed his head and left Mickey alone with his thoughts.


	46. SORRY I+M LATE

Ian was lying in bed, alone in his cell. He’d taken an extra strong dose of medication after convincing Jan that he was feeling manic. _Not completely false._ After watching him take it, she ordered Ian to go back to his cell to rest. It felt good to be numb. Ian didn’t want to feel anything right now. Or ever.

 

“Why’d you come to Mexico?” The voice came from the cell door, deep and gravelly.

 

 “Leave me alone, Mickey,” Ian said, without turning. He felt even more grateful for the medicated fog. His own voice felt so far away.

 

“Why did you come to Mexico?” Mickey repeated.

 

Silence.

 

“I’m talking to you, Gallagher.” Mickey’s voice was harder, impatient.

 

Silence.

 

Ian felt the covers being ripped away and his right shoulder shoved down to the bed. Mickey climbed on top of him, pinning Ian on his back.

 

“ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION, IAN”

 

It was first time Mickey had called him ‘Ian’ in such a long time…Ian felt so far away, his thoughts a jumbled cacophony. Why was Mickey looking so sad? Ian felt incapable of dishonesty at this point; party because of the lithium, and partly because he was so tired of all the lies. He had lied to himself, to his family, to Trevor… Mickey. Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. How could he have lied to himself about Mickey? Mickey, who was raging like a tornado out of orbit, trying to regain control.

Without thinking, because thinking was an alien concept by now, Ian reached up and raked his fingers through Mickey’s dark hair. It was as soft as he remembered it. He ran his hands through it some more, then without thinking reached up to kiss Mickey’s lips. Gently. He brought both hands to Mickey’s cheeks and held them. Softly. Ian vaguely acknowledged the audacity of his actions but he was riding a wave that prevented everything but honesty.  

He didn’t notice the ice thaw, melt, and cascade Mickey’s eyes in a misty waterfall. The drops flowed down Ian’s hands as he instinctively pulled Mickey onto his chest and leaned back, wrapping both arms around him. Mickey smelled like milk, candy bars and baby powder... with a little bit of cigarettes. Ian didn't know if he wanted to bottle that smell or drown in it.

 

“Goddamn you, Gallagher...” Mickey whispered but Ian just shushed and hugged him tighter, nuzzling into Mickey’s neck and shoulder.

 

“I wanna show you something,” Ian said, at long last. He turned them over so that he and Mickey lay side by side, facing each other.

 

Ian pulled off his orange shirt. He removed the white T-shirt beneath it, and bared his chest. He felt more than a little naked as he waited for Mickey’s reaction.  

There were very few times in Mickey’s life when he was stunned to the core. Being able to anticipate and react was a very handy skill he learned growing up on the wrong side of Chicago. Now here he was with a stupid, fucking grin on his face, with _the most idiotic redhead_ he’d ever met, feeling like he got sucker punched in the heart. Mickey threw back his head and laughed.

 

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” Mickey said, eyes travelling back and forth between Ian’s face and Ian’s chest. “You’re a certifiable nut bag, you do know that, right?”

 

Ian was grinning, too. “Gee, thanks. And I almost got a fucking infection cos of you”

 

Slowly, Mickey’s grin faded into something deeply sombre and sincere. When Mickey finally spoke, he tugged the back of Ian’s neck and spoke in a voice so gentle yet raw that Ian’s heart broke all over again. “This is the last time, Gallagher.” Mickey whispered, swallowing hard. “I won’t go through this again. You hear me?”

Ian breathed in his words and exhaled heavily. He felt the exact same way. There were only so much one heart could take. This was the last call- one last chance to make it happen for the two of them. Neither would take it lightly.

 

Ian nodded quietly, kissed the inside of Mickey’s palm and said, "I'm sorry."

 

 “I’m sorry, too. C’mere.”

 

And he meant it. Mickey leaned forward and planted two kisses on top of Ian’s head and one on his forehead. He lay back and caressed Ian’s face, nestling into his eyes.

 

***

 

Across Ian’s chest was a hideous tattoo hastily done the day he set out for Mexico:

 

“SORRY I+M LATE”

 


	47. Wife Material

Ian woke up to an empty bed, sliding his hands over the Mickey-sized groove on the sheets. Mickey had since returned to his own cellblock for count. Ian smiled so deeply that he feared his face would stay that way. He’d never felt so settled and light-hearted in months, even years.

If they weren’t in prison, he would have snuck into the kitchen and prepared a breakfast fit for the gods; Mickey would have made fun of his house-wifish ways, and a smirking Ian would have pinned him to the wall and reminded him exactly how un-wifish he could be. Mickey would have wrestled him to the floor and their lovemaking would have been a balance beam of rough and romantic. Afterwards, they would eat that breakfast, wash it down with black coffee and live the rest of their lives in rural bliss. Ian didn’t need a marriage certificate. In many ways, their conversation the night before was a deeper commitment than anything a piece of paper could provide. He _saw_ Mickey yesterday, clearer than seeing himself in a mirror. Ian saw the brash, stubborn exterior that sent a thrill down his spine and the sweet, fragile interior that he longed to protect.

Nothing else mattered.

The clang of metal and inmates calling out to each other reverberated down the hall as the rest of his block awakened.  A series of flushing toilets echoed through the cells; inmates had been tipped off about a random cell search and were getting rid of their contraband. The drug industry was thriving in Cook County Corrections. Several times, Ian had been offered meth in little plastic wrappings that had been smuggled in through the ass.

A buzz went off as Ian’s cell door unlocked. Ian stood up and spread out his palms. Officer Hernandez, nodded and took a quick survey of the room. Satisfied that everything was in order, he nodded again and left Ian’s cell to move to the next one.

Ian stuffed the usual wad of tissue into his pocket. He stopped and grinned. Shrugging, and still smiling, he headed for the cafeteria.


	48. A Better Deal

Mickey sat alone, filled with a girly fucking giddiness he didn't dare express, at the table where only a couple of days ago he and Ian had their ‘deal-breaking’ standoff.

A prisoner, a newbie from the looks of it, wandered over like a lost bunny into coyote territory. He smiled at Mickey and put his food tray on the table. Without looking up, Mickey said, “Take that shit off my table before I slap you with it.”

The newbie jumped and skittered away before remembering his tray and cautiously inching back to retrieve it. He went to the farthest table, closest to the guard on watch. The guard smiled. Mickey’s goons were laughing hysterically a few tables away, placing bets on how long the newbie would survive unscathed.

Less than a minute later, another food tray was placed on Mickey’s table. This time, Mickey looked up to see Ian grinning from ear to ear. “That wasn’t nice, Mickey.”

“Who said I was nice?” Mickey answered.

Ian sat across from Mickey. They ate their breakfast in comfortable silence as inmates streamed in and out of the cafeteria. It was packed, as usual, but nobody dared join them. Those without seats either opted out of breakfast or squeezed into the other tables. Ian noticed this, and let his eyes linger over Mickey’s face.

“What you lookin’ at?” Mickey asked.

“Are you really part of the mafia?” Ian asked, seriously. He leaned forward. “The actual Mexican mafia?”

“Maybe,” Mickey sucked his teeth and leaned forward, too. “What did you expect, Gallagher- that I’d join the fucking peace core?”

Ian leaned back and regarded Mickey with a twinkle in his eye. “Now _that_ would have been a nice surprise.”

Mickey munched on his cornbread. He shot Ian a peculiar look. “You wanna know what’s a fucking surprise? You getting caught by the cops with _my_ consignment. How the fuck did that happen?”

Ian shifted in his seat, placing both elbows on the table. “It was an accident.”

“ ‘Course it was” Mickey drained his juice box and reached for Ian’s which was rapidly defended. Mickey raised his hands in defeat, and signalled for one of his goons to surrender theirs. “How did you get caught?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

Mickey chuckled as he stabbed his second juice box. “What’d you do, jay-walk or somethin?”

“Let’s just say there was a moment with a tree.” Ian said, avoiding Mickey’s inquisitive gaze by soaking his cornbread with beans.

“A fucking what?”

“A tree.”

Mickey frowned. “What’d you do to a fucking tree?”

“Nothing.”

Mickey leaned back and stared at Ian. Ian could see the realization break over his face as he solved the salacious puzzle.

“Daaaaamn, fire crotch…” Mickey laughed and slapped his knee. He kept chewing and grinning, staring Ian up and down. “And what about that little twerp Ricky?”

“Yeah, well, I mean…wait-how do you know about Ricky?”

“He’s one of mine.”

“Whaaaat?” Ian was genuinely shocked.

“How’d you think I found you?” Mickey asked. “You thought I had a fucking crystal ball?”

“I thought Mandy told you…”

“I haven’t spoken them in months. Don’t want them getting mixed up in the shit I got going on.” Mickey sniffed and continued eating.

Ian wondered just how much trouble Mickey was actually in. “So you came here for me?” Ian asked.

Mickey sniffed and pursed his lips. “Yes and no. There’s some shit I gotta take care of.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

Mickey shook his head. “Better if you’re not involved.”

Ian nodded, slowly. He would let it go, for now. There was something else he wanted to address…

“Hey,” Ian said, taking Mickey’s attention away from his food. “No more fucking around this time. Just you and me. Deal?”

“Getting all monogamous on me, Gallagher?” Mickey said, looking over Ian with a soft gaze.

 “I’m serious, Mickey.”

 

Mickey took advantage of Ian’s distraction to finally snatch the unopened juice box. He grinned. “Deal.”


	49. VERSATILE

“Fuck!” Mickey cursed, gripping the sink to support the extra weight.

When he looked up, he saw his own reflection and that of the tireless redhead behind him. Mickey spread his legs further apart but his knees were weakening. Ian bit hard on his neck, firing a swell of pleasure down his spine. He was grunting now, letting out sounds he hadn’t made in months. He propped one hand on the wall next to the mirror for support, and used the other to urge Ian from behind. A sheet was tied from the bed to the edge of the mirror, blocking the door and frustrating any peeping toms.

It had been a long time since Mickey was filled to the brim, that edge of the cliff, hotter than hell type of ecstasy that made life so fucking ecstatic. Ian got him off in ways no one else could. It wasn’t just that they were physically compatible; if that were it, Mickey would have stayed with Benjamin in Ciudad Juarez. As much as he hated to admit it, Ian Gallagher owned his heart. Every fucking piece of it. Battered and bruised as it was, Mickey was handing it over again. This was a gamble, he knew. But it was the last gamble he was ever going to take, and fuck it all if he would let anything come between them.

“You alright?” Ian asked. He was panting and sweating, the most evil grin plastered on his face.

Mickey was grinning too, until the next thrust turned it into a grimace. His legs trembled as the build-up bubbled over into a heavy orgasm. Ian released soon after. 

“Goddamn you, Gallagher.”

Ian kissed Mickey’s neck and reverse scooted them back onto the thin mattress, where they lay spooned and spent. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and the occasional sound of a goon scaring away potential tourists.

“Get ready for round two.” Mickey added, closing his eyes. “We have a lot of catching up to do, fire crotch.” He reached behind and tapped Ian’s ass a few times.

Ian rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “…I want you to do it.”

Mickey turned his head. “What? Why?”  

“We’re in prison, remember? Do it slowly, this time.” Ian turned to his side, away from Mickey. He clutched the sheet, tight. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Mickey reached around to squeeze his hand.

Ian felt Mickey’s tip, searching, and he clenched instinctively. Ian’s legs began to tremble. The feeling of being pried open. The strain of entry. That first burning thrust. Ian writhed in order to ease the pressure. He let out a deep moan. The physical pain was almost too much to bear. Mickey held on to Ian’s hand and breathed softly down his back, pushing further and further in. He had never felt so consumed. Another piece of him was surrendered to Mickey that night. Perhaps, the last piece.

“Just you and me, Ian.” the pillow was lumpy, the mattress springs were digging into their backs and the blanket was scratching their skin sore. “Just you and me.”


	50. Bluffing

Pedro felt, more than saw, the changes in Mickey since they last spoke on the bench.

Azul was lighter: like a clogged pipe that had finally been cleaned out. Pedro could even joke around him without threats to his life. His smiles were closer to the surface, his edges softer. The goons noticed it too. In their tiny mafia hearts, they were grateful to Ian Gallagher for making it happen.

That said, Azul still had a tongue like sand paper and fists like bulldozers. His routine did not change, either. He still had work to do, including one important task that Valenciano wanted him to handle, personally.

Pedro had been holding off having this conversation with Mickey for a while but it was getting too dangerous to avoid it any longer.

“Boss, we have to talk.”

“Later. I’m starving.” Mickey was checking his reflection in the mirror, slicking down the edges of his hair and looking pleased at the result. Pedro noticed he was smelling especially nice. Azul was showering twice a day now, which meant some goons had to give up their shower tokens to facilitate. _Was that cologne?_

“It’s about Gallagher.”

Mickey raised his eyebrow and turned. “What about him?”

“The two cabrónes from Los Jóvenes,” Pedro began. “They wanna set up a meeting to negotiate territory…and other things.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” He went back to pruning his hair in the mirror.

“They know about Ian.” Pedro pointed out. “They might rough him up if we don’t.”

“Let them try,” Mickey said, his tone low and vicious. “See how far they get with broken skulls and their insides hanging out.”

“I think they’re serious, boss.”

“If I go to that meeting, they’ll know for sure that Ian is important to me and he’ll be as good as dead. We just have to watch him.”

“And Rodriguez? He’s coming any day now.”

“You let me worry about Rodriguez.”

“What about Benjamin?”

Mickey narrowed his eyes and glared through the mirror.

“He’s been trying to reach you all month,” Pedro braved on, “Says you’re not taking his calls or putting him on your visitation list.”

“Leave it to me.”


	51. A Lazy Day

Ian and Mickey lay on the patchy yellow grass in the courtyard, their arms underneath their heads, watching the clouds roll by. The warm, afternoon sun baked their skin as they listened to the occasional yard scuffle and the hum of distant traffic.

“You smell nice,” Ian said.

“Fuck  _off_ ,” Mickey responded. His eyes were shut, but he rubbed his belly in the way that he does when he is pleased.

“Why can’t you ever take a compliment, huh?” Ian countered, raising his palm against the sun that peeked through the clouds.

“Talk is cheap. I prefer action.”

“Smuggling meth to Mexico wasn’t enough for you?”

“How about turning yourself in and getting locked up _again_. I think I got you beat, Army.”

Ian leaned over and kissed Mickey on the lips without warning. Just as quickly, he rolled back to his original position, staring at the clouds, this time with a huge smile on his face.

“You never let me win.” Ian complained.

“Better get used to it, Gallagher.” Mickey said with an evil smirk. “Of all the crazy shit, I never expected _you_ to go to prison.”

“It was worth it.” Ian glanced at Mickey, whose eyes were still closed.

“Fuck _off,_ ” Mickey repeated. Then added, “Til death do we motherfucking part.”

Ian chuckled. “Am I supposed to kiss the bride now?”

Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand and brought it to his lips for a rare and tender kiss.

“ _I’m_ the bride?” 

“What the fuck did you expect?”

Ian started to argue then lay his head back down and squeezed Mickey’s hand. “You win. Again.”

“Of course.”

A tall, shadow loomed over their heads and Ian squinted up at the figure. Mickey didn’t move or even open his eyes but said, “What’s up, Pintero?”

Pintero, a friendly Mexican guard, cleared his throat and nodded briefly at Mickey. “Azul.” Turning to Ian, he said. “You’ve got a visitor, Gallagher.”

“Oh? I thought visitation is only on Fridays?”

“Emergency visit. It was approved.”

Thoughts of Fiona and the Gallagher clan came to mind. “Lip? Carl?”

“Goes by the name of Benjamin Álvaro Pérez.”


	52. Green-Eyed Monster

Ian knew it was incredibly hypocritical to be jealous. Was he the only one who had suffering those eight months while Mickey was shacked up in suburban bliss?

He returned from the ‘emergency visit’ to find Mickey waiting for him in his cell. He was sitting on the bed, arms on knees, hands clasped so hard his veins were popping.

“What’re you doing here?” Ian asked, casually.

“What did y’all talk about?”

Ian tried as hard as he could to distil his jealousy before answering. “About your life in Mexico. Your _relationship_.” The last part was laced with a good dose of venom.

Mickey stood up slowly. “Are you mad that I moved on or pissed that it wasn’t you? What the fuck was I supposed to do, Ian, turn into a fucking priest?”

Ian narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t have to lie about it.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me about lying. Or have you forgotten about Slick Fucking Rick?”

“That didn’t mean anything, and you know it,” Ian stepped closer, cocking his head to the side. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But Benjamin means something to you, doesn’t he…?”

In all his life, Ian was never more scared of getting an answer. The whole world threatened to disappear from under his feet.

Mickey met his eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Sadness flushed Mickey’s face, deepening the blue of his eyes, sagging his shoulders. “But that’s never enough for you, is it?”

Ian’s debilitating fear was replaced by terrible regret.

“Mickey…”

“Whatever,” Mickey said, already absent. “Later.”


	53. Hear No Evil

Ian was doing a lousy job of sorting the medicine cabinet. He had been so stuck on the fact that Mickey and Benjamin had been in a proper relationship (versus the fuck-and-run situation he had with Rick) that he had sulked through most of the conversation.

The more he remembered, the guiltier he felt. Benjamin had already given him all the answers he needed. Mickey had never said Ian’s name out loud but Benjamin felt the spectre of the name beneath Mickey’s recent chest tattoo of red flowers and green thorns. Mickey didn’t explain why he was leaving or when he was returning. When he was told that Mickey was in Cook County Corrections, all Benjamin had to check for was _Ian Galagher_ in the prison’s public records.

“I’m sorry…” Ian didn’t know what else to say.

“No te preocupes por mí ( _Don’t worry about me),”_ Benjamin had said, looking away. “You win, Ian Gallagher. Adiós.”

And now Ian was re-sorting medicine in the cabinet for the 10,000thtime, waiting to clock out so he could go back for count, sleep restlessly through the night and find Mickey the next morning to apologize.

When the door buzzed open, Ian’s thoughts were too cloudy too care. 

“Hola, Doc.”


	54. Rock Bottom

Ian raked a bruised hand through his red mane.

Sunlight streaked through a tiny, square window near the ceiling. The concrete walls were damp and mildewed, covered with marks where inmates had scratched their fingernails. There was no bedframe; just a thin, lumpy mattress that took up three quarters of the room. There was a standard issue toilet in the corner but no sink. In the adjacent cells, Ian could hear inmates pacing, talking to themselves, rapping. There was a guy two or three cells over who kept banging his head against the door, yelling for the guards to let him out.

Still, Ian couldn’t help smiling.

In a fit of rage, he had told Mickey that he didn’t need a caretaker. So when Baldie and Ponytail were escorted to the health center by a crooked prison guard, it was time to walk the walk. Ian’s lower lip was busted, his entire right face and stomach bruised, but he had given better than he got. It was one thing to ambush him in a dim storage closet with 5 guys, quite another in a brightly lit room with only two.

He’d enjoyed himself a little more than he should have, hit a little harder that he needed to. The guard, standing watch with his back turned, had assumed the beat down was happening to him. It was only after Baldie yelled for help that he turned and used his stun gun to neutralize the situation. Ian could still feel the effects on his liver.

And he got solitary for a whole week because of it. The guard accused him of violence against “two innocent patients who had come to seek treatment”. Records confirmed that Ian had a mental condition, and despite Jan’s protests, the warden cancelled his work placement. He would get reassigned pending a psych evaluation.

No work, a pissed off boyfriend and a looming death sentence from Baldie & Ponytail’s people...Ian cracked his knuckles pensively.

_Bring it._


	55. A Fragile Thing

It’s funny how one week without the redhead could send him to fucking pieces.

Mickey dropped down after his 30th pull-up. He shook his arms loose and stretched them out. Working out was always the best remedy for his raging emotions. It calmed him and put his brain back in gear. Besides, there wasn’t much else to do in prison.

Mickey smirked when he saw the two limp dicks who had attacked Ian walking in. They were massaging their wounds and averting their eyes. Mickey was prouder than a mother bear when he heard the news of their beat down. Right now, something else seized his full attention. A bunch of Los Jóvenes members were approaching the gym behind Don Rodriguez, their leader. Mickey had been informed of his arrival the night before.

Tall, dark and hawk-eyed, Rodriguez was a younger version of the beast, Luis ‘El Venganza’ Valenciano. Scarier even, considering this beast was an enemy. Flanked by members on both sides, Rodriguez approached Mickey with the air of an apex predator.

In order to leave the Venganza family, Mickey did the unthinkable: _snitch_ to the Feds about the elusive Don Rodriguez and his whereabouts in exchange for a shorter sentence and a pardon from previous offences. No one would accept Mickey after that, even the Venganza family, so it was agreed that his mission would be covert and he should never return to Mexico. There was an even more important task for which Valenciano would not tolerate failure. This was the moment Mickey had been waiting for.

“When they told me the new favourite of the family was a little gringo from Chicago, I didn’t believe it,” Rodriguez began, picking a pair of dumbbells from the weight rack.

The four guards on duty kept sharp watch from the sidelines. These were no ordinary inmates so any level of confrontation would not be tolerated. To maintain a peaceful facade, Mickey went back to the pull-up bar to prep for another thirty reps.

“That’s cause you haven’t met this gringo,” Mickey replied, casually pulling up on the bar. “ _Amigo_.”

A man on Rodriguez’ left moved towards Mickey til Rodriguez shook his head and he moved back.

“Got a pair of balls on you,” Rodriguez drawled, slowly curling one dumbbell, then the other. “I’ve had people decapitated for less.”

Mickey dropped down from the chin up bar, slapped his hands together a couple of times and said, “Stand down, Pedro.”

Pedro Lopez had come dangerously close to Rodriguez, his eyes a sharp edge. Unlike everyone else in that room, Pedro showed no apprehension of Rodriguez. Quite the contrary, there was a barely controlled mixture of calm and contempt.

Rodriguez looked up at Pedro, and spat in rapid Spanish, “É les tu hefe ahora?” _He’s your boss now?_

“Let’s talk business,” Mickey cut in. He moved towards the bench with the bell bar and sat down, deliberately lowering his position.  “The Don wants to make a deal with you. He bails you out but you gotta go home.”

Rodriguez cocked his head, “And why would I do that?”

“Familia,” Pedro cut in.

“Stay out of this, Pedro.” Mickey ordered.

“A man who rats me out to the feds isn’t my family.” Rodriguez said, glancing at Pedro. He put down the dumbbells and moved closer to Mickey. Pedro matched his movement. “The fact that you’re standing here breathing is because I haven’t decided how to kill you yet.”

Mickey fought to remain calm. “If it’ll make you feel better, go ahead. Kill me. I just think it’s a fucking shame not to take his offer.”

Rodriguez studied Mickey’s face, looking for signs of sincerity. “Why should I trust you?”

Mickey shrugged. “Don’t trust me. Trust your father.”

Running footsteps from outside, getting closer. All attention was drawn to the entrance as a tall, good-looking redhead peeked in. A smile pulled the edges of Rodriguez lips. Mickey’s whole body tensed. As protected as Mickey was with the Venganza family, Rodriguez was Valenciano’s only remaining son. Pedro might be loyal to Mickey, but he couldn't say the same for the rest of his goons. On top of that, a good number of Los Jóvenes were in prison. A gang war would be deadly and Mickey had a suspicion his would the losing side. Getting angry could only spell disaster.

“Trust is a fragile thing, isn’t it?” Rodriguez Valenciano murmured, eyes completely locked on Ian.

 


	56. Moving In

“You’re moving in with me.”

Ian had barely walked two steps into the gym when Mickey had sailed past him and made a straight beeline for his cellblock.

“What are you talking about?” Ian asked, struggling to keep up with Mickey’s pace. He was expecting Mickey to be mad, furious even, about their fight but he was talking about _moving in together_? Something about Mickey’s expression and the tight set of his shoulders gave Ian cause to worry.

“Is this about you wanting to be my caretaker again?” Ian wheezed when they arrived at Mickey’s cell in two minutes in what was usually a 15-minute stroll. “I told you, I can handle myself.”

“You have _no fucking idea_ what you’re talking about!” Mickey barked, breathing hard. His eyes had grown wild.

“That’s ‘cause you won’t fucking tell me!” Ian roared, shaking Mickey by the shoulders. “What the fuck is going on, Mickey?”

Mickey took a deep breath and shook his head. His expression changed from fury to anguish. “It’s better if you stay out of it. Trust me, Ian.”

Ian hated how Mickey could flip the script on him. A second ago he was ready for a brawl and now all he wanted was to kiss the fear from Mickey’s voice. He slapped the wall in frustration and turned away.

“It’s you who doesn’t trust me.” Ian said. He slumped down on the bed and lowered his head into his hands. “What are you so afraid of?”

Mickey squinted at the walls, torn. He walked over and sat next to Ian. The minutes ticked by as Pedro dutifully kept watch outside the cell.

Finally, Ian sneered and leaned back. “Well…I  do know one thing.”

Mickey glanced at him, rubbing his arms absent-mindedly. He’d done about 100 pull-ups because of this shit. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“I need a very good reason to leave my palace and squeeze into this dump” Ian replied, a glint in his eye.

Mickey chuckled in disbelief. “This motherfucker…” he muttered, before getting down on his knees and unbuckling Ian’s belt.

Ian rolled back his head and beamed like a Cheshire cat.


	57. Career Paths

The prison library was not impressive by any standards. Just a small hall with decent lighting, four study bookshelves lining the walls, less than a dozen long tables with uncomfortable plastic chairs and a long front desk manned by a single librarian and his assistant.

Ian was the new assistant. His work assignment had changed since the incident and he could not be happier. He missed working with Jan but dealing with blood and violence every day was taking its toll. While it may have been exciting outside of prison, in here Ian craved peace and quiet. The library was perfect for that. There was even a prison book club. What could be more peaceful than that?

“You didn’t have to come, you know. I’ll be back before cell count.”

Mickey grumbled through the humongous encyclopaedia that lay open on his table. Four goons were looking at picture books nearby.

“Why’d you have to get a job at the fucking library, huh?” Mickey asked for the thousandth time. “I’d have more fun stapling my eyes shut than reading this fucking thing.”

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to learn something new,” Ian said, ignoring his question. He was organizing books from his cart to the shelves.

“Yeah, Einstein.” Mickey retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Like I’m gonna discover the cure for cancer in this fucking dump.”

“ _Shhh_!” The elderly librarian eyed them over his horn-rimmed glasses. Mickey leaned forward and gave him the finger.

“ _Mickey!”_ Ian hissed.

Thankfully, the librarian let it slide. He transferred his gaze over to Ian, silently handing over the responsibility. Ian retrieved a thick, red book from his cart, marched over and slammed it on Mickey’s table as quietly as he could. “You owe me a fucking margarita when you come out,” he said. 

 

_***_

_The Joy Of Mixology_ : _A Comprehensive Guide Of The Art Of Mixing Drinks_


	58. In The Garden Of Eden

Mickey went from moping about the library to actually _reading_.

There were times Ian forgot he was even there. He had finished the first book and was reading others during his visits. As casual as it seemed, Ian had given a lot of thought to what might appeal to Mickey. Something practical and interesting, with no math or trickery, but still bad-ass. If the mixology didn’t work, his next suggestion would have been some kind of jiu jitsu. _As if Mickey needs to get any more dangerous._

Ian finally noticed the tall, hawk-eyed Mexican who had been watching him intently from across the room. Ian nodded in acknowledgement and said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually, I think I do…” The inmate approached Ian, who was behind the desk reading a _Spanish For Beginners_ handbook. “Hablas espanol?”

Ian smiled awkwardly and lifted the book. “Trying. It’s much harder than I thought.”

“I can teach you.”

Ian lifted an eyebrow. He changed the subject to more neutral ground. “Are you looking for a specific book? I can help.”

Rodriguez stared at Ian a little longer than was comfortable. When he finally glanced at the bookshelves, Ian was enormously relieved. “Do you have _The Godfather_?” Rodriguez inquired.

Ian shook his head. “They don’t stock anything with too much violence. Mostly classics like Jane Austen or _Catcher In The Rye_. Now and again a _Harry Potter_ , if we’re lucky.”

“Show me what you got.”

Ian got up and led the way to the bookshelves with Rodriguez trailing quietly behind him. The hairs on Ian’s arms stood on end and a wave of electricity surged through him. Everything inside him was on high alert but Ian couldn’t figure out why. This inmate had not said or done anything remotely aggressive, but Ian had the distinct impression of a deer in close proximity to a preying lion.

Ian pulled out a book on gardening. “How about this?”

Rodriguez nodded and took the book. He commented on his interest in apple farming.

“Do you have a brother, Gallagher?” Rodriguez asked, suddenly.

Ian skipped a beat but Rodriguez just smiled and pointed at his name-tag. Ian laughed nervously, and finally relaxed. _It is prison, after all_. _Every one is dangerous._

“Yeah, I got a bunch of brothers.” Ian answered. “Sisters, too. You?”

“I had a brother once. The nice type. Like you.”

“If I was nice, I wouldn’t be here,” Ian mocked, perusing the higher shelves for more books. “Where is he?”

Rodriguez paused. “Accident,” he finally said.

“Oh. Sorry.” Ian said. He hadn’t meant to step into anything.

Rodriguez quickly changed the subject. “Why are you in prison, anyway? Too many parking tickets?”

“Why does everyone think I’m harmless?” Ian joked.  

“I could get you out of here, you know.”

Ian stopped and stared. He must have heard it wrong. “What?”

“My lawyers have everything set up for my bail. I could bail you out, too. I’m sure your brothers and sisters would like that.”

Ian was too dumbfounded to react. This inmate was looking him straight in the eye, deadly serious. “Why would you do that?” he asked.

“You remind me a lot of my brother. Allow me to do this for you.”

The offer was not a light one. The only reason Ian hadn’t posted bail yet was because the Gallagher clan couldn’t afford to. Fiona and Lip were doing all they could to raise the money but they had too much on their plates and Ian didn’t blame them. He had resigned himself to serving the remaining 15 months until his parole date.

And this random Samaritan was offering to take it all away, just like that. There had to be a catch.  “You don’t belong in here,” Rodriguez pressed. “What do you have to lose?”

_What did he have to lose?_


	59. A Decisive Moment

Mickey stood at the entrance, watching Ian chat with Rodriguez, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

So far, Rodriguez was keeping his hands to himself- Ian was even laughing at some point. After several minutes, Ian led Rodriguez back to the reception desk with books to checkout. When Rodriguez bowed to Ian in playful farewell, Mickey tensed even more. Ian saw Mickey and waved in greeting. Rodriguez turned to see Mickey, and made his way to the exit. He paused beside Mickey and muttered:

“You’re a luckier man than I, gringo.”

Mickey stared straight ahead, raising his hand to Ian in response. Under his breath, he growled: “I know what the fuck I got. I don’t give a fuck who you are: try that again and see how long you keep your head on your fucking shoulders.”

Unfazed, Rodriguez whispered something in Mickey’s ear and left the library with his gardening books. Mickey was rooted to the spot, ears redder than a beetroot and heart palpitating out of his chest.


	60. MY WHOLE WORLD

Mickey was smoking his last cigarette on the bench in the courtyard. It was late in the day, fall leaves littered the yard and the air was crispy cold with the signs of winter. Mickey thought of the 18 months that had passed since entering Cook County Corrections, and for the life of him, could not think of a better way he would have spent them.

“There you are.” Ian plopped down next to him. He failed to pinch the cigarette away from Mickey, who held it at arm’s length. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Mickey brought the cigarette back for one last puff before surrendering it to Ian. “Maybe I like making you sweat a little, tough guy.”

“Yeah, you do.” Ian agreed, a little out of breath. He looked around the empty courtyard. “Where’s Pedro and everybody?”

“Gave them the day off.”

Ian squinted at Mickey, sending a cloud of smoke billowing from his cigarette into the cold afternoon. “Why’d you do that?”

Mickey rubbed his hands together, trying to steady the slight tremble of his fingers that wasn’t from the cold. “‘Cause I’m not good at fucking goodbyes, alright?”

Ian nodded. “Me neither.”

Ian had been fighting separation anxiety for weeks, willing himself to make the best of the time they had left. Now that his parole date was here, he had less than a couple of minutes to spend with Mickey before going back to the fogginess of life without him. _At least this time it isn’t permanent_ , Ian kept reminding himself. Mickey would be out in six months.

He put a reassuring hand on Mickey’s back. “Til death do we part, remember?”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Gallagher.” Mickey said. His hands became a little steadier.

“I mean it.” Ian extended his arm around Mickey’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He just had to fall in love with the cutest, porcupine gangster in the world. “Let’s make a new deal.”

“Thought we were done with those.”

“No cheating while I’m gone.”

“Fuck _that,_ I ain’t no fucking Po-”

Ian punched him hard on the face. Mickey recoiled and jumped off the bench in time to avoid the next punch. “Jesus Christ!” He spat on the ground and wiped the streak of blood on his lip. “Can’t take a fucking joke?”

Ian stood up and approached Mickey and shoved him. “I won’t lose you again.”

Mickey shoved him back. “And you won’t.”

“Why not?” Ian asked, advancing again.

Mickey held out his hand, stopping Ian in his tracks. He took a minute to catch his breath, spitting out the last of the blood.  “…‘cause you’re my whole world, too”

Ian stared blankly for a few moments until full realization hit. His mind went back to a conversation long ago with an inmate who offered to post bail for him. ‘What do you have to lose?’ the inmate had asked. It had taken Ian less than two seconds to answer. When Ian’s eyes fell on Mickey’s he held them there.  “…he told you?”

Mickey closed the gap between them in two strides and grabbed his collar. He committed every inch every line, every cheekbone to memory.   

“You want a deal? Here it is: _you will never lose me_. Not fucking ever. We’re growing old and fucking grey together, maybe even raise a couple of rugrats. And if I ever find out you so much as sniffed the wrong end of a Dixie cup, I’ll slit both our throats and we can call it a Merry Fucking Christmas. Deal?”

Ian nodded. It was the best proposal in the world.

Mickey shoved him back with a grin. “Now get the fuck out of here.” 

Ian grinned back and slowly began his backwards retreat, never taking his eyes off Mickey.

“When I get out, I’m taking you someplace special.” Mickey declared when Ian was a few yards away.

Ian raised his voice to answer, “Yeah? Where?”

 

> “Our first date.”

“What?” Ian yelled, already near the exit. “Can’t hear you!”

“Just remember to put on a nice shirt, tough guy!” Mickey yelled back.

 

 

THE END

 

***

 

_“You don’t belong in here,” Rodriguez pressed. “What do you have to lose?”_

**_“My whole world.” Ian replied. “And I’m never losing it again.”_ **


End file.
